H.  llovtf^ertnilk  &  Co., ' 

STANDARD.  CHOICE  AND  RARE 

LAW  AND 

MISCELLANEOUS  BOOKS, 
WASHINGTON,  D.  C. 


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THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA 


DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 
SOCIETIES 


PR8799 

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L4 


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/oysy 


J!.iIpU2A4f, 


RETREvT  OF 
ST.  PAUL  OF  THE  CROSS 


^  RETREAT  OF 
ST.  PAUL  OF  THE  OW§§ 


p/e  ^7  Pi 

Legends 

L  LI 


OF 


y  H  E  j\[ 


ARS 


IN 


Jreland. 


BY 

ROBERT  DWYER  JOYCE,  M.D. 


BOSTON : 

JAMES  CAMPBELL,  i8  TREMONT  STREET. 

1868. 

^  RETREAT  OF 
ST.  PAUL  OF  THE  CiiOSS 


^  J- 


Enterod,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1867,  by 
JAMES  CAMPBEDL, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


vT 


stereotyped  and  Printed  by 
Geo.  C.  Hand  &  Avery,  3  Cornhiel,  Boston. 


To 

A 

John  Savage,  Esq. 

IN  ADMIRATION  OF  HIS  GENIUS  AS  A  POET,  AND  IN  TESTIMONY 
OF  HIS  STERLING  WORTH  AS  AN  IRISHMAN 
AND  A  PATRIOT, 

q:si8  s  o  o  k 


IS  DEDICATED  BY  HIS  COUNTRYMAN  AND  FRIEND, 


THE  AUTHOR. 

Boston,  November,  1867. 


RETREAT  OF 


ST.  PAUL  OF  THE 


3  CJ 


CONTENTS 


- - 

PAGE 

A  Batch  of  Legenhs  .  7 

The  Master  of  Lisfinry . 41 

The  Fair  Maid  of  Killarney . 79 

Ah  Eye  for  an  Eye . 103 

The  Kosb  of  Drimnagh . 112 

The  House  of  Lisbloom . 127 

The  White  Knight’s  Present . 196 

The  First  and  Last  Lords  of  Fermoy  .  .  .  204 

The  Chase  from  the  Hostel . 224 

The  Whitethorn  Tree . 243 

Eosaleen,  or  The  White  Lady  of  Barna  .  ,  .  306 

The  Bridal  Eing . 325 

The  Little  Battle  of  Bottle  Hill  .....  840 


'hdxaS  a 


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viqgcuJ  ji*,  -  '  , 

■  -‘’^  ■ ’■'•f-  <  '^f''jT''t  ft  -A'/  '.•d4i  afHj? '  gC'  q .  %  ui  ■ 

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‘TMSf  ' 


A  Batch  of  Legends. 


♦ 


INTRODUCTORY. 

O  the  majority  of  people,  a  quiet  seat  by  the  fire- 


-i-  side,  or  an  easy  walk  along  the  streets  of  one’s 
native  town  or  village,  is  often  more  agreeable  than 
the  toilsome  rambles  of  the  tourist.  And  yet  in 
every  district  of  our  islands,  amid  the  summits  of 
their  wild  mountain  ranges,  and  in  the  green  glens 
and  pastoral  valleys  of  their  lowlands,  lie  scenes 
which  would  amply  repay  the  toil  and  trouble  of 
the  wanderer.  The  battered  and  gloomy  castle, 
built  with  exact  military  judgment  on  its  command¬ 
ing  position  above  the  narrow  pass,  suggesting  the 
bloody  contentions  that  often  raged  beneath  its 
walls;  the  ivied  and  time-worn  ecclesiastical  ruin 
amid  the  green  pastures  by  the  peaceful  river,  with 
its  gray  tombstones,  drooping  yew-trees,  and  sacred 
hawthorns ;  the  ancient  Danish  encampment ;  the 
fairy-haunted  rath;  the  small  cyclopean  oratories* 

*  Diminutive  chapels,  built  of  enormous  blocks  of  stone,  the  ruins 
ef  which  exist  yet  in  many  places  in  Ireland. 


7 


8 


A  BATCH  OF  LEGENDS. 


of  the  ancient  missionaries  who  first  brought  the 
light  of  Christianity  to  our  shores ;  the  lonely  Druidic 
cairns  and  sacrificial  altars,  —  all  these, 'with  their 
wild  and  romantic  legends,  and  the  varied  and  beau¬ 
tiful  scenery  that  surrounds  them,  would,  in  my 
opinion,  afford  as  much  pleasure  to  the  traveller  as 
the  quaint  towns  and  sluggish  canals  of  Germany, 
the  hackneyed  precipices  and  waterfalls  of  Switzer¬ 
land,  or  the  brigand-peopled  passes  of  Italy ;  for  all 
which  our  modern  excursionists  have  such  a  strange 
and  unpatriotic  predilection. 

To  those  whose  easy  inclinations  preclude  their 
taking  on  themselves  the  troubles  of  the  tourist, 
who  have  no  leisure  for  holiday  excursions,  or  who 
prefer  migi-ating  with  the  yearly  tide  of  fashion  to 
Continental  lands  for  enjoyment  of  scenery  and  char¬ 
acter,  I  offer  these  volumes  of  tales,  with  the  hum¬ 
ble  hope  that  they  may  be  the  means  of  pleasantly 
passing  away  some  of  their  dull  hours.  The  legends 
and  wild  lore  contained  in  them  are  the  gleanings  of 
the  author,  since  his  boyhood,  in  one'  of  the  most 
picturesque  and  beautiful  portions  of  our  island,  — 
the  result  of  his  sojourn  for  many  a  summer  month 
under  canvas  amid  the  high  mountain  ranges,  and 
of  his  due  attendance  at  wake  and  wedding,  dance, 
Patron,*  and  fair,  and  merry-makings  of  every  de¬ 
scription,  amongst  the  peasantry.  Before  concluding, 
however,  it  will  not,  I  hope,  be  out  of  place  to  offer 

*  A  meeting  of  the  peasantry  for  prayer  and  merry-making  around 
the  ancient  well  or  chapel  dedicated  to  the  patron  saint  of  the  locality. 


INTRODUCTORY. 


9 


a  few  remarks  upon  the  peculiar  kinds  of  traditions 
to  be  met  with  in  tliese  volumes,  —  traditions,  many 
of  which  the  author  has  found  common  to  all  the 
nations  of  middle  and  northern  Europe,  and  which, 
therefore,  cannot  but  prove  interesting  to  the  eth¬ 
nologist  and  historian,  no  matter  to  what  country 
he  may  belong. 

The  narratives  handed  down  to  us  through  the 
medium  of  oral  traditions  are  of  three  kinds.  The 
first  includes  all  those  wild,  romantic,  and  strange 
legends,  which,  however  they  may  be  twisted,  turned, 
or  embellished,  always  carry  with  them  a  certain  air 
of  improbability  and  untruth.  To  this  class  belong 
the  many  stories  relating  to  Theseus,  Hercules,  and 
the  other  Greek  demi-gods  ;  the  romantic  history  of 
Romulus  and  Remus,  and  of  many  another  Roman 
hero;  numerous  incidents  in  the  wild  legends  of 
the  Fenian  warriors,  and  in  the  romances  of  King 
Arthur  and  his  compeers ;  many  of  the  Sagas  of  the 
North  :  in  other  words,  most  part  of  the  early  his¬ 
tory  of  the  several  countries  to  which  these  person¬ 
ages  belonged,  and  of  every  other  land  whose  origin 
looms  out  indistinctly  beneath  the  dusky  shadows 
of  antiquity. 

To  the  second  class  belong  those  circumstantial 
■narratives  which  bear  the  impress  of  having  been 
founded  more  intimately  on  certain  facts,  but  which 
are  yet  unsupported  by  historical  testimony.  Of 
this  class  may  be  cited,  as  examples,  the  tales. of  bat¬ 
tles,  sieges,  single  combats,  acts  of  piety,  or  deeds 


10 


A  BATCH  OF  LEGENDS. 


of  wickedness,  told  by  the  peasantry  of  our  own 
islands,  in  connection  with  many  a  pass,  castle,  gray 
abbey,  and  hoary  town,  but  for  any  corroboration 
of  which  we  will  look  in  vain  to  the  meagre  and 
scanty  pages  of  our  national  histories.  And  yet  if 
the  latter  were  once  properly  written,  and  our  old 
documents  carefully  examined,  many  of  these  tales 
would  become  proven  history;  for  it  is  from  such 
that  a  considerable  part  of  even  the  authentic  nar¬ 
rative  of  every  country  is  made  up.  There  are 
hundreds  of  incidents  related  in  the  pages  of  Thierry 
and  Macaulay,  which,  before  the  days  of  these  histo¬ 
rians,  were  accepted  on  traditional  authority  only, 
but  which  now,  after  the  careful  investigations  of 
these  acute  minds,  have  become  matters  of  j^urely 
authentic  history. 

In  the  third  class  are  included  all  those  tales  and 
legends,  which,  however  wild  and  romantic,  yet  find, 
in  some  of  their  incidents  at  least,  corroborating 
testimony  in  written  history.  Of  these  the  historian 
will  find  many  yet  lingering  among  the  peasantry ; 
and,  if  he  investigate  them  with  the  proper  amount 
of  acuteness,  diligence,  and  erudition,  they  will  add 
in  no  small  deo-ree  to  the  liveliness  and  truthfulness 

O 

of  his  pages.  It  is  from  such  materials  that  Scott 
formed  the  subject-matter  of  his  long  series  of 
novels,  constructing,  as  he  did,  one  bright  and 
attractive  panorama  of  the  history  of  his  native 
land. 

Of  each  of  the  above  classes  I  shall  now  proceed 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  SLEEPING  MONKS.  11 


to  give  an  example,  commencing  with  the  first.  In 
what  follows,  the  reader,  if  he  be  versed  in  legend¬ 
ary  lore,  will  recognize  an  Irish  version  of  a  legend 
known  in  parts  of  Germany,  in  Norway,  in  England, 
and  in  other  European  nations,  in  each  of  which 
countries,  however,  it  seems  to  belong  to  no  particu¬ 
lar  locality.  In  Ireland,  nevertheless,  the  legend  is 
fixed  to  a  certain  place,  and  always  told  without 
either  variation  of  incident,  or  change  of  the  charac¬ 
ters  involved  in  it.  The  reader,  if  he  has  ever 
heard  it,  can,  however,  judge  for  himself  with  regard 
to  these  points  in 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  SLEEPING  MONKS. 

About  a  mile  to  the  south  of  Fethard,  in  the 
county  of  Tipperary,  stand  the  ruins  of  the  ancient 
Abbey  of  Eilmacluch,  near  the  banks  of  the  Glas- 
hawling,  one  of  the  two  streams  that,  after  their 
junction,  form  the  beautiful  river  Anner.  In  the 
early  ages  of  Christianity,  there  presided  over  this 
holy  establishment  an  abbot  called  Barran  Kief, 
renowned  both  for  the  extent  of  his  learning  and 
for  the  sanctity  of  his  life.  One  bright  summer 
day,  Barran  Kief,  with  two  of  his  monks,  went  out  to 
walk  in  a  green,  forest-clad  valley  that  lay  beside 
the  abbey  wall,  and,  on  reaching  a  certain  lonely 
glade,  sat  down  to  rest.  Around  them,  on  every 
side,  stretched  the  green,  dreamy  forest,  covering 
height,  hollow,  and  shore,  and  drawing  its  many- 


12 


A  BATCH  OF  LEGENDS. 


tinted  cincture  of  bright  leaves  around  the  sloping 
sides  of  Sliav-na-mon.  After  resting  for  some  time, 
they  were  just  thinking  of  rising,  and  proceeding  on 
their  way,  when  they  heard  a  loud  rustling  of  wings 
above  them  in  the  air;  and,  on  looking  upward, 
beheld  a  bird  of  beautiful  form  and  resplendent 
2:)lumage,  hovering  over  the  tops  of  the  green  trees, 
and  looking  down  upon  them  at  the  same  time  with 
eyes  whose  intense  rays  seemed  to  pierce  into  their 
very  souls.  Hovering  thus  for  a  few  moments,  the 
bird  at  length  commenced  singing  a  long  and  varied 
strain  of  melody,  which  fell  upon  the  ears  of  the 
wondering  abbot  and  his  monks  beneath  with  a 
sweetness  far  surpassing  any  thing  they  had  ever 
heard,  and  scarcely  equalled  by  that  glorious  strain, 
which,  in  their  dreams  of  heaven,  always  saluted 
them  through  its  golden  portals.  Still  the  bird 
hovered  above  them,  with  its  glittering  wings  out¬ 
spread,  singing  its  enchanting  song,  which  at 
length  seemed  to  fill  valley  and  glade,  and  the 
deep,  dreamy  recesses  of  the  forest,  with  a  flood  of 
ravishing  and  delightful  melody.  As  the  monks 
listened,  they  felt  a  rapturous  and  delicious  drowsi¬ 
ness  stealing  over  them,  and  at  length  fell  into  a 
sound  and  dreamless  sleep.  , 

The  winds  of  a  hundred  summers  had  borne 
the  odors  of  the  flowers  on  their  rejoicing  wings 
through  the  dells  of  the  merry  forest,  when,  on  the 
noontide  of  a  sunny  day,  one  of  the  monks  awoke, 
and  called  out  in  a  loud  voice,  “  Clushm  ghlay 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  SLEEPING  MONKS.  13 


i.e.,  “  I  hear  a  call !  ”  But  the  bird  was  still  float¬ 
ing  above  them  on  its  glorious  wings,  and  still  sing¬ 
ing  its  enrapturing  song;  and  the  monk,  overpow¬ 
ered  by  the  sweetness  of  the  melody,  lay  back  on 
the  green  forest  grass,  and  fell  asleep  once  more. 

When  the  flowers  of  another  hundred  summers 
had  bloomed  and  died  along  the  lonely  forest,  the 
second  monk  awoke  in  the  breezy  noontide,  and 
called  out,  “  Cadh  ha  iirth  f  ”  i.e.,  “  What  troubleth 
thee  ?  But  the  bird  was  still  singing  over  him  and 
his  companions ;  and  he  had  scarcely  gotten  one 
glimpse  of  the  fresh  blue  sky,  when  he  was  lying 
upon  his  coucli  of  green  shamrocks,  and  asleep  again. 

The  gray  crags  on  the  mountain-tops  had  been 
beaten  by  the  winds  and  channelled  by  the  succes¬ 
sive  rains  of  another  hundred  years,  when  Barran 
Kief,  the  abbot  himself,  awoke,  and  called  out  in  a 
loud  voice,  “  Shievun  bouragh  /  ”  i.e.,  “  Thou  trou- 
blest  me !  ”  And  immediately  his  monks  opened  their 
eyes ;  and  all  three  arose  slowly  to  their  feet,  freed 
from  their  enchantment ;  for  the  bright-winged  bird 
was  gone,  and  the  sweet  melody  was  heard  no  more. 

The  blue  summer  sky  was  still  the  same  above 
them :  but,  as  Barran  Kief  and  his  two  monks  looked 
around,  they  were  stricken  with  a  strange  surprise ; 
for,  in  the  low-lying  valley  where  once  the  marsh- 
flower  bloomed,  fields  of  yellowing  corn  now  waved 
in  the  mild  winds ;  and  along  the  sides  of  the  hills, 
and  down  in  many  a  lonely  dale,  where  once  the 
great  trees  of  the  forest  spread  their  giant  arms,  cot 


14 


A  BATCH  OF  LEGENDS. 


and  castle  now  gleamed  in  the  sunshine,  with  herds 
of  quiet  cattle  and  many  a  flock  of  snowy  sheep 
browsing  contentedly  around  them.  After  standing 
for  a  time  in  mute  wonderment,  they  proceeded  to¬ 
wards  the  abbey,  thinking  still,  in  spite  of  them¬ 
selves,  that  they  had  slept  only  during  a  few  hours. 
On  reaching  the  abbey,  their  astonishment  was 
increased  on  finding  it  occupied  by  a  strange  abbot 
and  strange  monks,  who  all  crossed  themselves  in 
wonder  and  awe  at  beholding  the  three  'strange 
visitants. 

Barren  Kief  went  to  the  abbot,  and  asked  him 
the  reason  of  the  change  in  such  a  short  time.  The 
abbot  answered  by  inquiring  who  they  were.  Bar- 
ran  Kief  told  him ;  on  which  he  immediately  pro¬ 
ceeded  to  the  books  of  the  abbey,  and  found  their 
names  entered  on  them  three  hundred  years  before. 
On  informing  them  of  this,  and  that  their  brethren 
were,  of  course,  all  dead  and  gone  for  nearly  the  same 
period,  they  appeared  suddenly  to  be  aware  of  what 
had  happened,  and  told  the  abbot  the  cause  of  their 
staying  away. 

“  And  now,  O  priest !  ”  said  Barran  Kief  to  the 
abbot,  “  we  will  celebrate  one  mass  more  for  the 
glory  of  God  before  we  depart.” 

The  chapel  was  full  of  people ;  for  it  was  Sunday. 
Barran  Kief  arrayed  himself  in  a  vestment,  and, 
assisted  by  his  two  monks,  chanted  the  mass  with  a 
melodious  sweetness  that  reminded  the  congregation 
of  the  delightful  strains  of  Paradise.  After  return- 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  CROSSED  SWORDS.  15 


ing  thanks  to  God,  and  blessing  the  people,  Barran 
Kief  and  his  monks  then  fell  down  upon  the  altar, 
and  were  instantly  reduced  to  three  heaps  of  dust. 

Tlie  reader  will  recognize  the  impossible  in  almost 
every  portion  of  the  above  story ;  but,  when  we 
come  to  narrations  of  the  second  class,  he  will  find 
them  of  a  different  character.  In  these,  every  cir¬ 
cumstance  falls  in  naturally :  there  is  nothing  impos¬ 
sible,  nothing  with  even  much  of  an  air  of  improba¬ 
bility  about  it ;  and  all  are  related  with  a  minute¬ 
ness  regarding  time,  action,  and  locality,  that  can 
leave  on  the  reader’s  mind  very  little  doubt  of  their 
truth.  I  shall  proceed  at  once  to  illustrate  the 
stories  of  this  class  by 

THE  LEGEND  OE  THE  CEOSSED  SWOKDS. 

In  a  certain  mountainous  distiict  of  Munster, 
there  dwelt  in  the  year  1745  a  young  gentleman  by 
the  name  of  Barry.  The  small  property  in  his  pos¬ 
session  at  that  time  was  the  remnant  of  a  very  con¬ 
siderable  one  which  his  grandfather  had  lost  by  his 
adherence  to  the  cause  of  King  James  in  the  disas¬ 
trous  war  of  1691.  This  young  man’s  father  and 
mother  both  died  in  the  same  year,  —  namely,  1728, 
—  leaving  him  an  orphan  at  the  early  age  of  five 
years.  Under  the  care  of  his  friends,  and  without 
the  watchful  eye  of  a  mother  to  look  after  his  early 
training,  Bryan  Barry  grew  up  a  wild  and  reckless 
boy,  with  strong  passions  and  a  hasty  temper,  yet 


16 


A  BATCH  OF  LEGENDS. 


with  a  peculiarly  warm  heart,  and  a  wonderful  kind¬ 
liness  of  disposition  towai’ds  any  one  whom  he  might 
consider  for  the  moment  as  his  friend.  At  the  pe¬ 
riod  in  which  this  short  tale  opens,  he  had  become  a 
young  man  of  fine  proportions  and  very  handsome 
features,  but  of  reckless  and  irregular  habits,  and 
with  a  mind  which  had  taken  its  tone  from  the 
stories  he  had  heard  of  the  acts  and  sentiments  of 
his  forefathers ;  becoming  therefore  imbued  with  the 
deepest  feelings  regarding  the  unfortunate  race  of 
the  Stuarts,  and  filled  with  the  wildest  notions  rela¬ 
tive  to  their  restoration  to  the  British  throne.  He 
had,  about  a  year  previous  to  the  above  date,  fallen 
in  love  with  an  extremely  beautiful  girl  named  Mary 
Fitzgerald,  a  few  years  younger  than  himself,  and  the 
daughter  of  an  old  gentleman  who  lived  in  his  vi¬ 
cinity,  who  was  very  poor,  having,  like  Bryan’s  grand¬ 
father,  lost  his  property  on  account  of  his  religion 
and  political  opinions.  Bryan’s  love  was  favored 
by  the  young  girl’s  father,  and  returned  by  Mary 
herself  with  the  fondest  affection  and  devotedness. 

There  was  in  the  same  neighborhood,  and  possess¬ 
ing  the  confiscated  estates  both  of  Bryan’s  grand¬ 
father  and  old  Fitzgerald,  a  man  named  Ebenezer 
Stubbs,  whose  father  had  been  a  drummer  in  the 
army  of  King  William.  This  man,  who  was  at  the 
time  about  thirty  years  of  age,  condescended  to  look 
with  a  favorable  eye  upon  the  handsome  Mary  Fitz¬ 
gerald,  and  consequently  hated,  and  was  cordially 
hated  in  return  by,  his  successful  rival,  Bryan  Barry. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  CROSSED  SWORDS.  17 


These  two  young  men  seldom  met ;  but,  whenever 
they  did,  it  was  with  looks  that  boded  no  peaceful 
termination  to  their  many  causes  of  dispute :  for 
Bryan,  besides  hating  Ebenezer  Stubbs  on  Mary 
Fitzgerald’s  account,  considered  him  also  as  the 
usurper  of  his  rightful  patrimony,  to  which  -  was 
added  a  hearty  detestation  on  political  grounds ; 
and  Ebenezer*,  for  many  similar  reasons,  lost  no 
opportunity  of  showing  his  ill-will  on  every  possible 
occasion. 

Things  went  on  thus  for  some  time,  when  one  day 
Mary  Fitzgerald  and  Ebenezer  Stubbs  both  disap¬ 
peared  from  the  neighborhood,  no  one  knew  whither. 
The  grief  and  rage  of  old  Fitzgerald  and  Bryan 
knew  no  bounds  ;  and  the  sorrow  of  the  majority  of 
their  neighbors  was  little  less,  for  Mary  was  a  uni¬ 
versal  favorite  with  every  one  who  knew#  her. 
Search  was  made  throughout  every  part  of  the  sur¬ 
rounding  country,  but  without  avail.  Day  after 
day,  Bryan,  with  the  few  young  men  that  resided  on 
his  diminished  property,  and  with  many  of  the  sons 
of  those  who  once  acknowledged  the  jurisdictioh  of 
his  forefathers,  was  out  amid  the  mountains,  and 
far  and  near  through  the  adjacent  plains,  in  search 
of  the  lost  Mary  Fitzgerald ;  but  every  succeeding 
day  saw  them  returning  sad,  weary,  and  unsuccessful. 
When  somewhat  more  than  a  month  had  passed 
away,  and  still  no  tidings  of  the  lost  one  came  to 
comfort  the  bereaved  father  and  anxious  lover,  a  re¬ 
port  began  to  circulate  amongst  the  people  around, 

2 


18 


A  BATCH  OF  LHGENDS. 


that  Ebenezer  Stubbs  and  Maiy  Fitzgerald  were 
both  living  happily  as  man  and  wife  in  the  noi’th  of 
England.  This  rumor  at  length  reached  the  ears 
of  old  Fitzgerald  and  of  Bryan ;  and  the  latter,  hav¬ 
ing  lost  all  hope,  and  mad  with  disappointment  and 
despair,  turned  his  thoughts  to  a  project  on  which 
he  had  been  meditating  occasionally  for  some  time 
previously.  His  was  not  the  temperament  to  brook 
delay  after  once  resolving  to  act ;  and  he  soon  car¬ 
ried  out  his  project. 

Oui’  readers  will  recollect,  that,  in  the  above  year, 
“  bonnie  Prince  Charlie  ”  made  his  final  attempt  to 
regain  the  throne  of  his  fathers  by  raising  his  stand¬ 
ard  in  the  Highlands  of  Scotland.  In  Ireland,  and 
particularly  in  its  southern  and  western  counties, 
this  attempt  was  looked  upon  by  the  inhabitants 
with  ^eager  eyes.  The  advent  of  the  prince  was 
hoped  for  anxiously  by  the  peasantry,  and  sung  by 
their  wandering  poets;  and  when  he  did  at  last 
raise  his  banner  in  the  Highlands,  many  young  men 
from  Ireland  crossed  the  water,  and  joined  his  ranks. 
Bryan  was  among  the  latter.  With  about  a  dozen 
young  men,  —  his  own  tenantry,  —  he  made  his  way 
to  the  Shannon  shore ;  and,  seizing  a  small  schooner 
near  Ballybunnion,  he  sailed  down  the  river,  turned 
northward,  and  rounded  the  coast  of  Ireland,  till  he 
reached  a  secluded  bay  on  the  western  shore  of 
Scotland,  whence,  after  abandoning  the  boat,  he  and 
his  companions  crossed  the  country,  and  at  length 
succeeded  in  joining  the  army  of  the  Pretender. 


THE  LEGEND  ^E  THE  CROSSED  SWORDS.  19 


After  escaping  many  dangers,  and  losing  most  of 
his  companions,  lie  stood  at  length  by  the  side  of  the 
young  prince,  and  fought  bravely  for  his  cause  in 
the  disastrous  battle  of  Culloden;  and  when  the 
day  was  lost,  and  the  hopes  of  the  Pretender  were 
shattered  forever,  he  again  escaped,  and  contrived, 
through  innumerable  perils  and  hardships,  to  reach 
his  native  land  once  more. 

It  was  a  dark  December  night  when  Bryan  sat, 
sad  and  weary,  by  the  fireside  of  an  old  farmer  who 
dwelt  upon  the  skirts  of  the  property  that  a  few 
months  before  he  could  call  his  own,  but  which  now, 
during  his  absence,  had  fallen  into  the  possession  of 
his  mortal  enemy,  Ebenezer  Stubbs.  From  this  old 
farmer,  Bryan  learned  the  secret  of  Mary  Fitzgerald’s 
disappearance,  and  other  facts  that  made  him  burn 
for  vengeance  upon  his  enemy.  Mary  had  been  car¬ 
ried  off  by  Ebenezer  Stubbs,  and  confined  in  Limer¬ 
ick,  in  the  house  of  one  of  his  accomplices ;  while 
Ebenezer  himself,  after  taking  up  his  residence  in 
London,  had  caused  some  of  his  worthy  associates 
to  circulate  the  report  of  his  marriage  at  home,  thus 
getting  rid  of  Bryan  in  the  manner  related.  Eben¬ 
ezer,  after  receiving  the  news  of  Bryan’s  reckless 
proceedings,  caused  Mary  Fitzgerald  to  be  sent 
back  to  her  father,  and  soon  returned  to  the  neigh¬ 
borhood  himself,  where  as  a  magistrate,  and  having 
the  terrible  penal  laws  of  those  times  to  back  him, 
he  soon  made  himself  the  terror  of  the  poor  peas¬ 
antry,  and  even  of  the  higher  classes  of  the  Roman 


20 


A  BATCH  OF  TRENDS. 


Catholics  around.  Amongst  the  rest,  he  had  com¬ 
pelled  old  Fitzgerald  to  consent  to  his  marriage 
with  Mary ;  and  Bryan  learned,  in  despair  and  grief, 
that  the  ceremony  was  to  take  place  in  a  few 
days. 

On  the  morning  of  the  day  before  that  fixed  for 
th'e  marriage,  Ebenezer  received  a  message  to  this 
effect,  —  that,  should  he -go  on  the  same  evening  to 
the  old  churchyard  outside  the  wall  of  his  demesne, 
he  would  meet  a  person  who  would  give  him  some 
information  of  vital  importance  to  himself  and  Mary 
Fitzgerald.  This  message  Ebenezer  cautiously  pon¬ 
dered  over  for  some  time  ;  but  at  length  he  resolved 
to  go.  Late  in  the  evening,  having  armed  himself 
with  the  long,  iron-hilted  sword  his  father  had  worn 
in  the  wars,  Ebenezer  proceeded  to  the  lonely 
churchyard,  and  there,  on  turning  round  a  corner 
of  the  dilapidated  wall,  he  beheld  confronting  him 
the  man  whom  he  most  feared  and  hated,  Bryan 
Barry.  , 

“  Draw  !  ”  exclaimed  Bryan  ;  “  you  false  hound, 
draw,  and  defend  your  vile  carcass ;  for  I  swear  that 
only  one  of  us  shall  leave  this  spot  a  living  man !  ” 

“  I  am  glad,”  replied  Ebenezer,  who  was  not  at 
all  deficient  in  courage,  “that  it  has  come  to 
this.  You  beggarly  outlaw !  ”  added  he  with  a  sneer, 
at  the  same  time  drawing  his  weapon,  “  I  will 
show  you  the  power  of  the  law,  as  well  as  the  power 
of  my  own  hatred  and  this  good  sword.  Take 
that !  ”  and  he  made  a  furious  lounge  at  Bryan,  who. 


THE  LEGEND  OP  THE  CROSSED  SWORDS.  21 


after  a  dexterous  parry,  slightly  grazed  Ebenezer’s 
shoulder  in  return. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  describe  the  particulars  of 
that  vengeful  and  long-protracted  struggle  ;  but, 
when  the  cold  light  of  sunset  fell  upon  the  mould¬ 
ering  wall  of  the  solitary  ruin,  Bryan  Barry  and 
Ebenezer  Stubbs  were  found  lying  side  by  side, 
pierced  by  many  deep  wounds,  and  stone  dead,  be¬ 
neath  the  branches  of  the  ancient  ash-tree  under 
which  they  fought.  On  hearing  the  news,  Mary 
Fitzgerald  received  a  shock  from  which  her  broken 
constitution  never  rallied.  She  pined  slowly  away, 
and  died  ere  the  commencement  of  the  ensuing  sum¬ 
mer  ;  and  her  father  soon  followed  her  to  the  grave. 
The  bodies  of  the  two  mortal  foes  were  buried 
where  they  fell,  outside  the  wall  of  the  ruin,  and  a 
stone,  which  an  itinerant  mason  marked  with  the 
semblances  of  the  two  swords  crossed,  in  token  of 
their  last  struggle,  placed  over  their  blood-stained 
resting-place. 

Now,  for  authenticating  this  narrative.  Beside 
the  same  churchyard,  and  beneath  a  very  ancient 
ash-tree,  was  to  be  seen  some  few  years  ago  —  per¬ 
haps  it  may  be  seen  there  still  —  a  tall,  green  flag¬ 
stone  standing  on  end,  on  removing  the  moss  from 
the  eastern  face  of  which,  the  rude  figures  of  two 
swords,  placed  crosswise,  might  be  easily  discerned; 
and,  if  tlie  curious  traveller  inquired  concerning  the 
history  of  that  strange  symbol,  he  would  hear  from 
any  of  the  surrounding  peasantry  a  narrative  the 


22 


A  BATCH  OF  LEGENDS. 


same  in  substance  as  the  foregoing.  But  what 
makes  the  story  still  more  authentic  is  this.  On  the 
side  of  the  little  hill  that  rises  over  ' the  ancient 
churchyard,  lives  a  farmer,  —  now  about  ninety 
years  of  age,  —  who  states  that  he  often  heard  his 
grandfather  relating  the  story,  and  every  particular 
of  the  combat ;  he  (that  is  the  grandfather),  then 
a  boy,  having  witnessed  the  whole  scene  through  a 
narrow  window  of  the  old  ruin,  to  which  he  had 
climbed  in  search  of  a  jackdaw’s  nest,  and  behind 
which  he  had  lain  all  the  time,  concealed  in  the 
clustering  ivy. 

We  now  come  to  narratives  of  the  third  class; 
namely,  those  in  which  one  or  more,  or  even  all 
the  circumstances  related  in  them,  can  be  con¬ 
firmed  by  written  history :  and  I  shall  illustrate 
them  briefly  for  the  present  by 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  SAXON’S  HOLLOW. 

About  a  dozen  years  before  Cromwell  came  into 
Ireland,  there  dwelt  an  old  chief,  named  De  Prender- 
gast,  far  up  amid  the  eastern  summits  of  the  Cnoc- 
mel-down  Mountains,  in  a  castle  called  Crogh-Cluny, 
the  ruins  of  which  may  still  be  seen  by  the  traveller, 
should  he  pass  through  that  wild  region.  This 
castle  stood  upon  a  projecting  limestone  rock,  over 
a  deep  hollow,  through  which  wound  the  only  road 
then  available  for  the  passage  of  troops  from  the 


I 


TRE  LEGEND  OF  THE  SAXON’S  HOLLOW.  23 

county  of  Tipperary  into  those  of  Waterford  and 
Cork,  Besides  this  castle,  the  chief  possessed  others 
down  in  the  lowlands,  the  strongest  of  which  was 
that  of  Newcastle,  upon  the  banks  of  the  Suir. 
The  old  chief  was  blind  with  age,  but  still  of  an 
energetic  character,  and  had  living  with  him  at  that 
time,  in  Crogh-Cluny,  an  orphan  niece  and  his  two 
sons.  One  wild  winter’s  day,  a  mounted  messenger, 
or  easlach.,  rode  into  Crogh-Cluny,  from  James  Fitz¬ 
gerald,  Lord  of  Modeligo,  near  the  Blackwater,  with 
the  intelligence  that  Murrogh  O’Brien,  Earl  of 
Inchiguin,  after  despoiling  all  the  eastern  baronies 
of  the  county  of  Cork,  and  the  adjoining  districts  of 
Waterford,  was  to  march  with  his  plunder  by  Crogh- 
Cluny  into  Tipperary,  The  easlach  also  stated, 
that,  in  case  De  Prendergast  would  aid  the  Lord  of 
Modeligo,  the  latter,  with  all  his  clan,  would  attack 
Murrogh  O’Brien  in  his  passage  through  the  hollow 
near  the  castle,  and  endeavor  to  obtain  possession 
of  the  spoil.  De  Prendergast  agreed  to  the  propo¬ 
sition,  and  the  courier  departed. 

On  the  day  that  the  Earl  of  Inchiguin  marched 
across  the  mountains,  the  confederated  clans  of  the 
two  chiefs  hovered  on  his  track,  and,  as  he  wound 
througli  the  hollow  beside  Crogh-Cluny,  attacked 
him,  according  to  their  agreement,  gained  possession 
of  the  spoil,  and  cut  his  army  to  pieces;  the  earl 
himself  only  escaping  by  the  fleetness  of  his  horse, 
which  bore  him,  with  one  astonishing  bound,  across 
a  deep  and  narrow  glen,  running  along  the  northern 


24 


A  BATCH  OF  LEGENDS. 


side  of  the  hollow,  and  called  to  this  day,  by  the 
peasantry  of  that  highland  region,  Leam-an-Earla., 
or  the  Earl’s  Leap ;  the  steep  valley  itself  being  des¬ 
ignated  Eag-na-Sassenagh,  or  the  Saxon’s  Hollow, 
in  commemoration  of  the  battle,  and  of  the  number 
of  Murrogh  O’Brien’s  soldiers  slain  within  it. 

In  the  division  of  the  spoil,  the  two  clans  quar¬ 
relled  ;  and  another  and  equally  bloody  battle  would 
have  been  fought  in  the  hollow,  had  not  the  mat¬ 
ter  been  left  to  the  arbitration  of  single  combat 
between  the  eldest  son  of  De  Prendergast  and  the 
Lord  of  Modeligo.  The  duel  was  to  be  fought  in 
full  armor,  and  with  sword  and  dagger,  by  the  two 
young  chiefs.  On  the  day  appointed,  they  met,  in 
the  presence  of  a  stipulated  number  of  each  clan, 
within  the  lists  on  the  bank  of  the  Suir,  near  New¬ 
castle,  the  spot  agreed  upon  for  the  combat.  It 
was  a  tough  and  bloody  duel ;  but  at  length  young 
De  Prendergast  fell,  mortally  wounded,  beneath  the 
more  fortunate  sword  of  the  young  Lord  of  Mo¬ 
deligo. 

The  old  chief,  in  the  mean  time,  was  sitting  in  his 
castle  of  Crogh-Cluny,  anxiously  awaiting  news  of 
the  combat  and  of  the  fate  of  his  son.  At  length 
his  niece,  who  was  stationed  beside  a  window  of  the 
apartment,  heard  the  clatter  of  hoofs  coming  u])  the 
rocky  ballagh,  or  road,  that  led  beside  the  castle, 
and,  on  looking  out,  found  that  it  was  the  young 
Lord  of  Modeligo  returning  from  the  fight.  The 
moment  the  latter  beheld  the  young  lady,  he  reined 
in  his  horse  opposite  the  window,  — 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  SAXON’S  HOLLOW.  25 


“Go!”  exclaimed  he  in  a  vaunting  tone,  “  and 
tell  the  old  wolf  inside  that  I  have  killed  his  best 
cub  in  to-day’s  combat.” 

The  young  girl  repeated  the  words  to  the  blind 
old  chief  inside. 

“Stay!”  said  the  latter,  rising  from  his  chair, 
taking  down  a  load^ed  musketoon  from  the  mantel¬ 
piece,  and  resting  it  on  the  sill  of  a  loophole  that 
commanded  the  spot  where  the  Lord  of  Modeligo 
still  sat  motionless  upon  his  horse,  —  “  Stay,  girl ! 
Now  ask  him  to  say  over  the  same  words  again !” 

The  young  girl  did  as  she  was  commanded ;  but, 
ere  the  words  were  half  repeated,  a  bullet  from  the 
musketoon  of  the  blind  chief,  who  regulated  his 
aim  by  the  direction  of  the  voice,  passed  through 
the  brain  of  the  young  Lord  of  Modeligo,  and 
stretched  him  a  corpse  in  the  midst  of  his  terrified 
followers,  on  that  steep  road  beneath  the  strong 
walls  of  Crogh-Cluny. 

The  above  is  the  substance,  neither  more  nor  less, 
of  what  I  heard  a  few  years  ago  from  a  venerable 
old  farmer  who  resides  near  the  ruins  of  Clogh- 
Cluny  Castle.  On  referring  to  Carte’s  Life  of  Or¬ 
mond,  and  other  histories,  the  reader  will  find  that 
Murrogh  O’Brien,  Earl  of  Inchiguin,  did  actually 
pass  down  those  mountains,  with  spoil  from  parts 
of  Cork  and  Waterford,  in  the  year  indicated  by  the 
legend ;  namely,  1641.  The  histories  also  state  that 
MuiTOgh  sent  word  to  Captains  Peasly  and  Browne, 
who  commanded  at  that  time  in  Tipperary,  to  have 


26 


A  BATCH  OF  LEGENDS. 


his  passage  cleared  for  the  transportation _  of  the 
spoil,  and  that,  on  these  officers  neglecting  to  do  so, 
“he  was  sorely  troubled  by  the  mountaineers.” 
No  doubt  but  he  was.  For  when  Carte  and 
other  partisan  writers  admit  so  much,  and  with 
the  evidence  of  the  names  of  the  localities  before 
us,  we  may  conclude  that  Murrogh  the  Burner  — 
as  he  was  called  from  his  savage  cruelties,  and  his 
equally  savage  marauders — got  a  bloody  and  sig¬ 
nal  overthrow  from  the  two  brave  clans;  and  we 
may  also  very  legitimately  infer  that  most,  if  not 
all,  of  the  other  incidents  of  the  legend  are  true. 

I  shall  now  introduce  my  readers  to  a  country 
acquaintance  of  mine,  whose  accurate  knowledge  I 
have  often  put  to  the  test  in  tracing  legends  to 
their  source,  as  well  as  in  divesting  them  of  the 
extraneous  incidents  often  tacked  to  them  by  the 
peasantry  during  the  lapse  of  time. 

Bob  Barry  is  a  doctor  of  the  old  school,  and  looks 
down  with  sovereign  contempt  on  many  modern 
surgical  and  medical  theories.  According  to  his 
own  words,  he  believes  what  he  likes,  and  nothing 
more.  And  yet  Dr.  Bob  is  a  successful  practi¬ 
tioner.  W itness  his  beautiful  house  and  grounds, 
and  the  amount  of  money  he  is  said  to  have  in  the 
funds.  He  imagines  himself  that  a  deep  knowledge 
of  the  ancient  classics  is  more  his  forte  than  a 
knowledge  of  the  healing  art;  and  certainty  he 
loses  no  opportunity  of  demonstrating  his  convic- 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  SAXON’S  HOLLOW.  27 


tion  by  interlarding  bis  conversations  with  the  most 
astonishingly  unique  and  erudite  phrases  and  apho¬ 
risms  from  the  forgotten  works  of  many  a  Greek  and 
Latin  sage.  But,  be  this  as  it  may,  I  know,  and  all 
his  acquaintances  are  fully  convinced  of  the  same, 
that  his  forte  lies  in  a  very  comprehensive  knowl¬ 
edge  of  Irish  history,  Irish  character,  topography, 
and  legends. 

Dr.  Bob  and  I  sat  opposite  each  other  before  a 
merry  turf-fire.  I  had  some  freshly-written  manu¬ 
script  before  me.  For  some  time,  he  sat  regarding 
me  with  sagacious  scrutiny,  as  if  making  a  diagnosis 
respecting  the  state  of  my  mental  faculties. 

“At  the  old  work?  ”  pronounced  he  at  last. 

“Yes,”  answered  I,  “I  have  here  some  legends 
whose  truth  I  am  endeavoring  to  verify  by  oral  and 
historical  testimony.” 

“A  laboi’ious  task  you  have  taken  on  yourself,” 
pursued  he.  “  I  see,”  he  continued,  referring  to  a 
former  conversation  of  ours,  “  that  there  is  one 
class  which  you  call  the  impossible  legend,  of  any 
example  of  which  you  can  give  no  verification. 
This  is  a  class,  however,  in  which  are  contained 
greater  numbers  than  in  all  the  others  ])ut  together. 
It  is  a  class  common  to  all  time  and  to  all  nations, 
particularly  to  the  Greeks.  Some  of  them  are  very 
beautiful.  Do  you  remember  the  myth  on  which 
Euripides  has  founded  his  play  of  ‘  Alcestis  ’  ?  ” 

“  If  I  do,”  answered  I,  “  my  idea  of  it  is  some¬ 
what  shadowy.  It  is  a  long  time  since  I  read  it.” 


28 


A  BATCH  OF  LEGENDS. 


“Well,”  continued  Dr.  Bob,  “there  was  a  king 
called  Admetus,  who  once  treated  Apollo  hospita¬ 
bly.  Admetus,  when  he  found  out  who  Apollo 
was,  and  saw  him  about  to  take  his  departure  for 
Olympus,  asked  the  god  to  confer  immortality  upon 
him.  Apollo  answered,  that,  if  he  (Admetus) 
could  get  a  substitute  to  die  for  him,  his  life  might 
be  prolonged.  Upon  this,  Admetus  applied  to  his 
parents,  who  were  old  and  infirm  :  but,  as  age 
advances,  the  love  of  life  seems  to  increase;  and 
both  father  and  mother  refused  to  die  for  him. 
Admetus  then  apjdies  to  his  wife,  the  young  and 
beautiful  Alcestis,  who  cheerfully  yields  up  life  for 
the  love  of  her  husband,  and  thereupon  dies.  Then 
follows  the  funeral-feast.  Hercules,  returning  from 
one  of  his  labors,  comes  to  the  palace.  lie  en¬ 
ters,  and  inquires  the  cause  of  the  mourning.  On 
hearing  the  story,  he  immediately  makes  an  excur¬ 
sion  to  the  infernal  regions,  where  he  finds  Alcestis, 
and  brings  her  back,  veiled.  He  carries  her  into 
the  palace,  where  Admetus  now  sits,  regretting  what 
he  had  done,  and  mourning  for  his  beautiful  and 
faithful  wife.  Hercules,  to  test  his  fidelity,  covers 
Alcestis  more  closely  with  her  veil,  and  says  that  he 
lias  brought  another  and  more  beautiful  wife  to 
Admetus.  But  the  sorrowful  Admetus  answers,  that 
he  shall  never  more  marry,  and  that  he  shall  soon 
follow  across  the  gloomy  Styx  her  he  loved  so  well. 
Whereupon  Hercules  lifts  the  veil,  discloses  Alces¬ 
tis  restored  to  mortal  life;' and  all  ends  happily. 


THE  CROSS  ON  THE  GRAVE. 


29 


But,”  continued  the  doctor,  after  a  learned  disser¬ 
tation  on  the  beauties  of  the  Greek  myth,  “  did  it 
ever  strike  you  how  it  is  that  Hercules,  who,  most 
probably,  was  a  real  personage,  had  a  number  of 
achievements  attributed  to  him  impossible  to  be  per¬ 
formed  by  any  single  hero,  no  matter  how  strong 
and  valorous  ?  ” 

“For  the  same  reason,”  answered  I,  “  that,  to  bring 
matters  nearer  home,  Fionn,  Cuchullin,  Conal  Cear- 
nagh,  Curigh,  the  son  of  Daire,  and  the  other  great 
warriors  of  early  Irish  history,  are  represented  as 
performing  a  number  of  actions  equally  impossible. 
The  magnified  actions  of  a  number  of  heroes  were, 
in  the  lapse  of  time,  confounded  by  the  poets  and 
Shanachies  with  those  of  one  man,  and  thereby 
attributed  to  him.” 

“It  is  so,”  said  Dr.  Bob,  with  an  approving 
glance.  “  But  I  see  the  name  of  Saint  Patrick  on 
your  manuscript.  To  what  class  does  ^your  legend 
belong  ?  ” 

“  To  the  first,”  I  answered ;  “  for  several  of  the 
incidents  in  it,  as  you  will  see,  are  impossible.  Yet, 
as  it  illustrates  and  accounts  for  a  universal  custom 
at  Irish  funerals,  it  is  well  worth  preserving.”  And 
I  read  for  him  the  following  legend :  — 

THE  CROSS  ON  THE  GRAVE. 

Saint  Patrick  had  a  servant  named  Duan  the 
Slender.  The  duty  of  this  servant  was  to  supply 
fuel  for  the  household  of  the  saint.  One  chilly 


30 


A  BATCH  OF  LEGENDS. 


winter  day,  he  went  with  his  axe  into  the  forest  to 
cut  timber;  and,  on  arriving  at  a  weird  and  lonely 
glade,  he  saw  an  aged  rowan  tree,  or  mountain-ash, 
upon  its  border.  He  immediately  commenced  to 
cut  it  down ;  but  his  axe  was  very  blunt  from  con¬ 
stant  use,  and  his  work,  therefore,  j)rogressed  very 
slowly.  The  morning  wore  away,  and  noon  came ; 
but  as  yet  he  had  scarcely  cut  half  a  dozen  inches 
into  the  stubborn  trunk  of  the  tree :  so  he  sat  down 
at  length  beside  it,  weary  and  sad,  and  began  to 
complain,  rather  loudly,  of  the  poverty  that  pre¬ 
vented  him  from  buying  a  new  and  sharper  axe.  As 
he  sat  thus,  a  voice  behind  him  called  out,  “  Duan 
the  Slender !  ”  three  times. 

Duan  the  Slender  turned  quickly  round,  and  be¬ 
held,  standing  near,  two  young  and  handsome  men 
of  rather  diminutive  stature.  They  had  long,  flow¬ 
ing,  lustrous  hair,  and  dark,  piercing  eyes,  that 
seemed  to  penetrate  to  the  very  soul  of  Duan  the 
Slender,  and  were  clad  in  luminous  green  garments. 
Duan  arose,  and  looked  upon  them  wonderingly. 

“  Have  you  called  me  ?  ”  he  said  at  length,  half 
afraid,  on  account  of  their  strange  looks  and  ap¬ 
parel. 

“Yes,”  answered  one  :  “we  have  called  you,  that 
we  may  do  you  a  service  if  you  are  willing.  Your 
axe  is  very  blunt,  and  your  labor  is  heavy.” 

“  It  is,”  answered  Duan,  catching  up  his  axe,  and 
looking  disdainfully  at  its  edge. 

“We  will  give  you  a  new  one,  that  will  cut  down 


THE  CROSS  ON  THE  GRAVE. 


31 


the  whole  forest  in  a  day,  if  you  comply  with  our 
request,”  said  the  young  man. 

“I  will  do  any  thing,”  answered  Duan,  “to  get 
rid  of  this  useless  and  ancient  axe,  and  get  a  new 
and  sharp  one.” 

“  It  is  well,”  returned  the  young  man.  “  Here  is 
our  request.  After  the  mass,  when  Saint  Patrick 
turns  round  to  bless  the  people,  ask  him  who  are 
they  that  can  never  share  in  the  light  of  the  gospel, 
that  can  never  go  to  heaven.” 

“  I  will  do  it,”  said  Duan  the  Slender.  “  And 
now  give  me  the  axe ;  for  I  must  finish  my  work 
and  begone.” 

They  went  into  the  forest,  and  returned  with  a 
sharp  axe  of  gleaming  blue  steel.  This  they  gave 
to  Duan,  saying  that  they  would  meet  him  in  the 
same  place  on  the  morrow  for  his  answer.  They 
then  depai’ted ;  and  Duan  the  Slender  cut  down  the 
tree  without  trouble,  and  took  some  of  its  dryest 
branches  home. 

Early  next  morning,  when  the  saint,  after  cele¬ 
brating  the  holy  mass,  turned  round  to  bless  the 
people,  Duan  the  Slender  arose,  and  called  out  in 
a  loud  voice,  “  Who  are  they  in  this  land  that  shall 
never  enter  heaven  ?  ” 

“‘Duine  Airiachs,’  or  the  people  of  air,”  an¬ 
swered  the  saint.  “  But,  O  Duan  the  Slender !  why 
have  you  asked  me  this  question,  that  will  bring  sure 
and  sudden  destruction  upon  you?” 

Duan  waited  till  mass  was  quite  over,  and  the 


32 


A  BATCH  OF  LEGENDS. 


saint  had  entered  his  dwelling.  He  then  told  Saint 
Patrick  what  had  happened,  and  the  promise  he  had 
made  to  the  two  strange  young  men.  “  It  is,  I  fear, 
a  fatal  promise  for  you,”  said  the  saint;  “for,  when 
they  hear  the  woful  answer  from  your  lips,  you 
will  surely  be  torn  to  pieces.  But,  however,  there 
is  one  plan  by  which  you  may  escaj^e  their  fury. 
You  must  perform  your  promise ;  but,  when  yoU  go 
out  into  the  forest-glade,  there  dig  a  grave,  and 
place  yourself  in  it,  with  the  mattock  and  shovel 
placed  over  you  in  the  shape  of  our  holy  symbol, 
the  cross.  Thus  await  their  coming,  give  them 
their  answer;  and,  with  the  blessed  sign  above  you, 
they  cannot  do  you  harm.” 

Duan  the  Slender  took  his  mattock  and  shovel, 
went  out  to  the  weii'd  glade  in  the  forest,  and  did 
exactly  as  the  saint  had  directed.  He  had  scarcely 
lain  himself  down  in  the  grave,  with  the  mattock 
and  shovel  placed  crosswise  above  him,  when  he 
heard  the  patter  of  innumeriible  feet  sounding 
through  the  forest,  and,  on  looking  up,  beheld  his 
place  of  refuge  surrounded  by  a  countless  crowd  of 
the  same  beings  he  had  seen  on  the  previous  day. 
The  two  young  men  who  had  given  him  tlie  axe 
stood  on  the  edge  of  the  grave,  and,  after  gazing  on 
him  for  some  time,  asked  him  for  his  answer. 

“I  asked  tlie  saint,”  exclaimed  Duan  the  Slender; 
“and  he  said  that  the ‘Duine  Airiachs’ were  they 
that  should  never  enter  the  kingdom  of  heaven.” 

Immediately  a  wild  yell  of  fury  and  sorrow  arose 


SHIRT  OF  MAIL. 


33 


from  the  great  crowd.  They  pressed  closer  round, 
and  attempted  to  drag  Duan  from  the  grave  ;  but 
the  blessed  sign  prevented  them.  At  length,  when 
they  found  their  vengeful  efforts  unavailing,  they 
turned,  and,  with  another  shrill  and  wailing  cry  of 
sorrow  and  baffled  anger,  disappeared  amid  the 
lonely  recesses  of  the  forest.  Duan  the  Slender 
left  his  place  of  refuge,  and  went  safely  back  to  his 
holy  master;  but,  ever  since,  the  people  of  Ireland, 
at  the  burial  of  their  friends,  make,  with  mattock 
and  shovel.  Saint  Patrick’s  cross  above  the  grave. 

“  It  is  the  custom,  certainly,”  said  Dr.  Bob.  “  It 
is  curious  that  a  similar  story,  differing  only  in  a 
few  slight  details,  is  related  in  ‘The  Tripartite  Life 
of  Saint  Patrick.’  But  I  see  that  yen  are  eager  to 
commence  a  legend,  I  suppose  belonging  to  your 
second  class.  Let  us  have  it,  then,  by  all  means.” 

“Yes,”  I  said.  “  Here  is  a  legend,  which,  I  think, 
can  be  established  as  a  true  one,  by  oral  and  living 
testimony ;  ”  and  I  read  for  the  erudite  son  of 
Galen  the 

SHIRT  OF  MAIL. 

In  a  valley,  amid  that  wild  range  of  mountains 
that  separates  the  plain  of  Limerick  from  the 
northern  confines  of  Cork,  there  grew,  some  years 
ago,  an  aged  hawthorn,  called  by  the  surrounding 
l^easantry  Sgach  na  Three  Theige.^  or  the  Bush  of 
the  Three  Timothies.  The  reader,  if  he  refer  to 
another  tale  contained  in  this  volume,  will  see 


3 


34 


A  BATCH  OF  LEGENDS. 


therein  how  the  tree  got  its  remarkable  name ;  but 
with  that  we  have  nothing  to  do  at  present.  This 
tree  seemed  to  have  stood  there  for  centuries.  It 
was,  however,  cut  down,  to  the  great  rage  of  the 
inhabitants  of  the  valley  in  which  it  grew,  by  a 
thieving  peasant  of  a  remote  hamlet,  who  made  the 
boxes  of  a  number  of  cart-wheels  from  its  trunk. 
It  stood  upon  a  level  tongue  of  land  that  projected 
between  the  meeting  of  two  mountain  streams. 

Many  centuries  ago,  there  dwelt  an  old  chief  upon 
the  neighboring  plain  of  Cork,  in  a  castle  whose 
ruins  may  yet  be  seen  rising  in  stern  grandeur  from 
a  green  knoll  at  the  southern  foot  of  the  mountain- 
range.  This  chief  had  an  only  and  beautiful  daugh¬ 
ter,  whose  hand  was  sought  in  marriage  by  several 
of  the  young  knights  around.  There  were  two  com¬ 
petitors,  however,  who  eclipsed  the  claims  of  all 
the  rest.  One  of  them  was  Sir  Henry  de  Rupe, 
belonging  to  the  powerful  house  of  Fermoy ;  and  the 
other  Sir  John  Fitzgerald,  a  scion  of  the  still  more 
powerful  house  of  Desmond. 

The  rivalry  of  these  two  young  knights  soon 
merged  into  hate  and  bitterness.  At  a  wassail  in 
the  castle  of  the  old  chief,  they  met  one  night. 
They  quarrelled ;  and,  ere  the  wassail  was  over,  one 
challenged  the  other  to  settle  their  claims  by  the 
then  usual  ordeal  of  single  combat.  The  day  and 
place  were  appointed,  to  the  great  delight,  accord¬ 
ing  to  the  legend,  of  the  old  chief,  who  said  that  he 
would  cheerfully  give  his  daughter  to  the  conqueror. 


SHIRT  OF  MAIL. 


35 


Some  short  time,  however,  before  the  day  appointed, 
the  two  young  knights  met,  accidentally  and  alone, 
on  the  green  tongue  of  land  mentioned  above. 
Again  they  quarrelled;  and  finally  agreed  then  and 
there,  without  witnesses,  to  settle  their  differences  in 
mortal  combat ;  and  that  the  vanquished  should  be 
buried  where  he  fell. 

It  was  a  long  and  terrible  struggle.  Sir  Henry 
de  Rupe  conquered,  slew  his  rival,  and,  according 
to  the  previous  agreement,  buried  him  in  his  armor 
on  the  scene  of  the  combat. 

It  is  now  nearly  twenty  years  since  a  young  man 
of  one  of  the  mountain  villages  dreamt  that  there 
was  a  great  treasure  buried  beneath  the  roots  of  the 
white-thorn  of  the  Three  Timothies,  which  grew  on 
the  identical  spot  indicated  by  the  legend.  He  and 
some  of  his  companions  went  one  night,  and  dug 
beneath  the  aged  tree.  After  excavating  to  a  depth 
of  about  three  feet,  they  discovered  a  heavy  lump 
of  steel.  They  dug  further ;  but  finally  their  search 
for  the  treasure  proved  unsuccessful.  This  lump  of 
steel  remained  in  the  village  for  a  long  time,  and 
was  a  great  curiosity.  It  was  made  up  of  a  number 
of  rings,  all  stuck  together  by  rust :  it  was,  in 
fact,  a  shirt  of  chain  mail.  It  is  a  great  pity  that  it 
was  not  preserved,  and  sent  to  the  Royal  Ii’ish 
Academy,  where  there  is,  I  believe,  but  another 
similar  specimen ;  but  the  curious  people  who  went 
to  see  it  each  took  away  a  ring  or  two,  and  thus  it 
ultimately  disappeared. 


36 


A  BATCH  OF  LEGENDS. 


“  This,  I  think,”  said  I  to  the  doctor,  “  is  sufficient 
proof  of  the  truth  of  the  legend.” 

Dr.  Bob  looked  logical  and  unconvinced  for  some 
time,  but  at  last  admitted  that  it  was. 

“  And  now,”  he  said,  “  for  your  legend  of  the  third 
class.” 

“  Here  goes,”  said  I ;  “  and  it  will  be  a  short  one.” 
So  I  read  for  him,  as  follows,  the  legend  of 

BLACK  HUGH  OF  DAEA  AND  DONAL  O’SULLIVAN. 

Hugh  Dhuv  Condon  had  once  been  the  owner  of 
one  of  those  strong  square  castles,  or  bawns,  so  many 
of  whose  ruins  may  still  be  seen  adding  to  the  pic¬ 
turesqueness  of  quiet  valley,  gentle  slope,  craggy 
gorge,  or  solitary  rock,  throughout  the  south  of  Ire¬ 
land.  During  the  last  Desmond  war,  he  had  fought 
against  the  forces  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  shared 
in  the  hardships  and  reverses ,  of  his  master,  the 
unfortunate  Earl  James.  Thus  it  happened  that 
when  the  war  came  to  a  termination  in  his  neigh¬ 
borhood,  and  the  English  had  taken  the  Earl  of 
Desmond  prisoner,  Hugh  Condon’s  border  tower 
was  burned,  and  razed  to  the  ground,  by  the  cruel 
myrmidons  of  the  government,  his  wife  and  children 
slain,  and  he  himself,  of  course,  outlawed. 

Hugh  Condon  swore  an  oath  that  he  would  have 
vengeance.  He  kept  his  vow.  There  was  a  pass 
near  the  cave  in  which  he  lived  with  his  followers, 
through  which  detachments  of  the  English  troops 


BLACK  HUGH  AND  DONAL  O’SULLIVAN. 


37 


had  to  pass  while  inarching  from  their  Limerick  gar¬ 
risons  to  those  of  Cork.  Often  had  Hugh  and  his 
fierce  followers  fallen  upon  these  detachments,  and 
frequently  had  they  conquered,  and  taken  summary 
vengeance  for  their  wrongs.  It  was  by  such  ex¬ 
ploits  that  Hugh  of  Dara’s  name  gradually  went 
abroad  as  that  of  the  most  celebrated  outlaw  in 
Munster.  The  mountains  in  which  his  cave  was  sit¬ 
uated  were  at  that  time  thickly  clothed  with  woods, 
—  offshoots  from  the  great  forest  of  Kylemore, — 
which  extended  along  the  steep  slopes,  branched 
higher  still  up  the  rocky  and  savage  gorges,  and 
even  clothed  parts  of  the  bleak  and  desolate  ex¬ 
panses  of  bog  that  stretched  often  from  summit  to 
summit  between  those  wild  hills.  A  small  hallagh, 
or  bridle-path,  led  across  this  chain  of  hills,  leading 
in  a  straight  course  from  the  plain  of  Cork  into  that 
of  Limerick. 

Along  the  aforesaid  hallagh,  Hugh  Condon  was 
riding  one  wintry  day,  about  a  year  and  a  half  after 
the  capture  of  the  Earl  of  Desmond  by  the  Eng¬ 
lish.  He  had  not  ridden  far  when  he  perceived  a 
plumed  horseman,  clad  in  splendid  armor,  galloping 
towards  him  from  a  far  turning  of  the  bridle-way. 
On  either  side  of  Hugh,  there  was  a  deep,  marshy 
bog,  so  that  the  stranger  could  not  pass,  unless  by 
the  path.  Now,  Hugh  of  Dara,  by  the  strange 
horseman’s  splendid  attire,  judged  him  to  be  an 
Englishman,  and  determined  not  to  let  him  pass 
without  a  word  and  a  blow. 


38 


A  BATCH  OF  LEGENDS. 


“  Draw !  ”  exclaimed  Hugh,  as  the  stranger  rode 
up.  “I  am  lord  of  those  mountains,  and  you  shall 
not  pass  the  way.” 

“By  my  good  faith!”  answered  the  stranger, 
reining  in  his  steed ;  “  but  this  is  surly  cheer  to  meet 
on  such  a  wild  day.  Let  me  pass,  good  fellow,  and 
you  will  not  repent  of  your  courtesy.” 

“No!”  answered  Hugli  stubbornly;  for  he  now 
thought  really  that  the  stranger  was  an  Englishman. 
“You  shall  not  pass,  unless  over  my  body!” 

“  Then,  be  it  so !  ”  exclaimed  the  strange  horse¬ 
man  ;  and,  with  that,  he  dashed,  sword  in  hand,  at 
Hugh.  But  Hugh  was  a  stout  soldier,  and  held  his 
ground  so  as  to  hinder  the  stranger  from  passing 
on. 

“I  warn  you  to  let  me  pass  !  ”  exclaimed  the  lat¬ 
ter  once  more,  as  he  prepared  for  a  more  vigorous 
attack  upon  Hugh.  “  Look  down  the  mountain- 
slopes  to  the  south,  and  you  will  see  those  approach¬ 
ing  before  whom,  when  they  come  uj),  you  will 
assuredly  be  hewn  in  pieces.” 

Hugh  looked  down  the  mountains,  and  beheld  a 
small  army  marching  across  them  from  the  plain. 

“  Who  are  you?”  he  asked  at  length,  still,  how¬ 
ever,  keeping  steadily  on  his  guard. 

“I  am  Donal,  Prince  of  Beare,”  answered  the 
stranger ;  “  and  now  let  me  pass,  for  I  must  find  a 
camping-place  for  my  followers.” 

Of  coui’se.  Black  Hugh  of  Dara  not  only  let  him 
pass,  but  brouglit  him  and  his  followers  to  a  safe  and 


BLACK  HUGH  AND  DONAL  O’SULLIVAN.  39 


sheltered  valley,  by  the  side  of  Ardpatrick  Hill,  on 
the  verge  of  the  Limerick  plain.  Here  they  rested 
for  three  days.  On  the  second  day.  Black  Hugh  of 
Dara  gave  them  notice  that  they  were  to  be  attacked 
the  following  night  by  the  Barrys,  the  Roches,  and 
part  of  the  English  garrison  of  Mallow;  and  showed 
Donal  of  Beare  a  pass  in  which  it  would  be  easy  to 
defeat  his  foes  as  they  marched  through.  Donal 
O’Sullivan  placed  an  ambuscade  in  the  pass,  and 
that  night  defeated  his  enemies  with  great  slaughter. 
The  peasantry  who  tell  the  legend  point  out  the 
difterent  localities  mentioned  in  it,  and  add  that 
Black  Hush  of  Dara  followed  the  fortunes  of  Do- 
nal.  Prince  of  Beare,  in  his  gallant  retreat  to  the 
north. 

“  It  is  an  interesting  thing,”  said  Dr.  Bob,  “  to  find 
out  even  one  of  the  stages  of  that  memorable 
retreat,  unequalled  by  any  thing  in  ancient  times, 
except  the  exploit  of  Aenophon  and  the  Ten 
Thousand.” 

“It  is,”  answered  I ;  “  and  I  have  historical  testi¬ 
mony  as  to  the  truth  of  part  of  the  legend,  at  least; 
for  it  is  mentioned  in  the  ‘Annals  of  the  Four 
Masters,’  that,  during  his  flight  to  the  north,  Donal 
O’Sullivan,  Prince  of  Beare,  and  his  forces,  en¬ 
camped  for  some  days  by  the  Hill  of  Ardpat¬ 
rick.” 

“No  matter,”  exclaimed  my  companion  excitedly, 
“fill  your  glass,  and  we  will  drink  a  toast.” 


40 


A  BATCH  OF  LEGENDS. 


I  filled  my  glass;  and  there  and  then  Dr.  Bob 
Barry  and  I  drank  a  flowing  bumper  to  the  memory 
of  Donal  of  Beare,  one  of  the  bravest  chiefs  that 
ever  drew  sword  beneath  the  fair  hills  of  holy  Ire¬ 
land. 


X 


The  Master  of  Lisfinry. 


CHAPTER  I. 

ONE  sweet  June  evening  in  the  year  1579,  the 
sentinels  were  ranged  for  watch  and  ward  along 
the  walls  of  Youghal;  some  leaning  in  an  indolent 
and  listless  manner  against  the  parapets  and  over 
the  breastworks,  others  walking  quietly  to  and  fro, 
their  bulF-coats  and  armor  half  unbraced,  and  their 
long  halberds  glittering  in  the  soft  and  merry 
sunshine.  Beneath  them  lay  the  town  with  its 
strong,  stern-looking  castles,  its  quaint  houses,  with 
their  pointed  gables  and  antique  doorways,  its 
inhabitants  half  astir  and  listless  too ;  for  the 
quiet  and  warmth  of  the  evening  seemed  to  have 
as  much  effect  on  their  movements  and  proceedings 
as  it  had  upon  those  of  the  lazy  soldiers  upon  the 
castle-tops  and  the  walls.  Southward  spread  out 
the  blue,  bright,  and  placid  ocean,  with  a  few  sails 
in  the  harbor  and  in  the  offing;  while,  in  a  landward 
direction,  the  scenery  extended  itself  into  a  broad 

41 


42 


THE  MASTER  OF  LISFINRY. 


panorama  of  mountain,  forest,  and  river,  enlivened  at 
intervals  by  gray  and  stately  castles,  each  of  which 
sent  up  its  eolumn  of  blue  smoke  into  the  calm, 
amber-colored  sky. 

On  the  northern  ramparts,  two  sentinels  were  sit¬ 
ting,  engaged  in  a  quiet,  half-dreamy  conversation. 
They  were  both  aged  men.  Their  faces  were  turned 
to  a  dark  bronze  by  constant  exposure  to  both  war 
and  weather;  but  their  bodies  seemed  still  strong 
and  stalwart,  stronger,  perhaps,  and  more  capable  of 
endurance,  than  when  they  first  donned  the  helmet 
and  sword,  and  took  to  the  wandering  trade  of  a 
soldier. 

“  Gurth  of  the  Stream,”  said  one,  addressing  his 
comrade,  “  I  would  we  were  both  back  again  in  our 
own  blithe  braes  of  Northumberland !  1  do  not 

like  this  cooped  life  of  ours,  ever  within  stone  walls, 
and  waiting,  always  waiting,  for  the  war-cry  of 
the  Irishry,  that  has  not  sounded  on  my  ears  since 
last  Christmas-tide.” 

“  Ralph  Goodwyn,”  said  Gurth,  “  from  my  heart  I 
wish  your  wish.  By  the  axe  of  my  father,  but  it  is 
enoimh  to  sour  a  man’s  blood  in  his  veins  to  sit  here, 
like  a  Yorkshire  churn  when  its  last  butter  is  made, 
and  never  find  any  one  thing  for  our  hands  to  do, 
save  sharpening  our  swords,  that,  God  wot,  are  sharp 
enough  for  the  work  they  have  to  do,  and  brightening 
our  tasses  and  breastplates !  Ah  !  those  were  merry 
days  when  we  chased  the  deer  together  through  the 
South  Forest,  and  courted  the  blithe  lasses  by  the 
Brig  o’  Reed.” 


THE  MASTER  OF  LISFINRY. 


43 


“Blithe  they  were,  and  merry,”  rejoined  Ralph 
Goodwyn.  “  Dost  thou  remember  the  day  I  fought 
Simon  o’  the  Mill  for  the  love  of  bonnie  Alice  of 
Elsdon  ?  ” 

“  A  bright  day  it  was,  Ralph,  but  a  black  day  for 
Simon  o’  the  Mill.” 

“But  it  was  near  being  the  same  for  me,  too, 
Gurth.  When  our  good  swords  were  shivered,  and 
we  went  to  work  with  the  dirk,  he  got  his  point 
between  the  bars  of  my  basnet,  and  gave  me  this;” 
and  he  pointed  to  a  great  scar  across  his  face.  “  He 
fell,  Gurth,  and  I  had  no  rival  for  the  love  of  my 
bonnie  Alice.  But,  alas  !  it  was  too  short,  and  she 
died,  poor  thing,  ere  the  autumn-tide ;  and  ever  since 
I  am  a  wanderer,  and  a  man  of  the  sword,  like  your¬ 
self.” 

“As  forme,”  rejoined  Gurth,  “  I  took  to  the  plume, 
aird  followed  the  tuck  of  drum,  to  feed  my  own  wild 
fancy.  I  could  never  love  maiden  like  you,  Ralph, 
though  the  gleam  and  the  blink  of  her  eye  were  as 
bright  as  the  steel  of  my  dirk.  But  what  is  that  ?  ” 
he  exclaimed,  starting  to  his  feet,  and  pointing  north¬ 
ward  to  the  skirt  of  the  ancient  forest  that  stretched 
along  the  bank  of  the  Blackwater.  Both  looked  in 
the  direction  to  which  he  pointed,  and  beheld  the 
glitter  of  swords  and  spears  and  the  waving  of  plumes, 
and  the  flutter  of  advancing  banners,  as  if  a  great 
army  were  approaching.  And  so  it  was.  Even  as 
they  looked,  a  large  body  of  light-armed  footmen,  or 
kerne^  emerged  from  the  wood,  and  formed  in  a  body 


44 


THE  MASTER  OF  LISFINRY. 


on  the  clear  plain  outside.  Long  lines  of  horsemen 
followed,  with  fluttering  banners  and  glistening 
armor,  tlien  other  bodies  of  foot ;  then,  again,  horse¬ 
men,  failing  into  regular  positions  as  they  .came,  un¬ 
til  at  length  a  large  and  numerous  army  lay  formed 
before  them  on  the  plain,  but  far  beyond  the  range 
of  the  light  cannon  upon  the  walls. 

“  Fire  the  alarm-gun,”  cried  Ralph,  “  and  call  up 
the  captain  of  the  guard !  ” 

A  small  falconet  on  one  of  the  towers  was  fired  by 
Gurth  ;  and,  in  a  few  moments,  the  ramparts  were 
thronged  with  men,  the  diflerent  officers  running  to 
and  fro,  giving  their  commands,  and  putting  the  now 
any  thing  but  lazy  soldiers  into  their  proper  order. 

“  Ho !  ”  exclaimed  the  captain  of  the  guard,  a  tall, 
stern-looking  soldier,  when  the  proper  arrangements 
were  made,  “  they  seem  still  un warlike  in  their  inten¬ 
tions;  for  here  comes  a  courier  with  a  flag  of  truce, 
and,  God  wot,  I  suppose  a  civil  message.  Better 
had  they  thrown  ns  the  gage  of  battle  at  once  in 
the  shape  of  a  pill  of  iron  from  the  mouth  of  one  of 
their  falconets,  than  come  thus  with  a  white  ’ker¬ 
chief  on  the  point  of  a  lance ;  for  we  can  hold  no 
parley  and  have  no  truce  with  those  wild  Irishry !  ” 

As  he  spoke,  a  knight  from  the  Irish  forces  rode 
forth,  accompanied  by  a  mounted  gilly,  or  hench¬ 
man,  and  came  at  an  easy  gallop  towards  the  walls. 
He  was  clad  in  a  suit  of  bright  armor,  his  helmet 
being  surmounted  by  a  tall  red  plume ;  and  in  his 
hand  he  held  his  long  spear  aloft,  on  the  point  of 


THE  MASTEM  OF  LISFINRY. 


45 


which  fluttered  a  white  ’kerchief,  like  a  small  ban¬ 
neret.  He  was  soon  within  speaking-distance  of  the 
walls,'  and,  reining  in  his  steed,  stood,  like  a  tall 
statue  of  iron,  motionless,  his  gilly  close  behind  him, 
looking  with  fierce  eyes  upon  the  formidable  array 
of  men-at-arms  upon  the  walls.  In  a  few  mo¬ 
ments,  he  raised  his  visor,  and  with  a  voice  loud  and 
clear  as  the  tones  of  a  trumpet,  addressed  himself 
to  those  wdiom  he  considered  to  be  the  leaders  of 
the  town. 

“  Vassals  of  the  Red  Queen,”  he  said,  “the  high 
and  mighty  prince,  John  of  Desmond,  sends  ye 
greeting. by  me,  James,  Knight  of  Lisfinry,  and  bids 
ye  to  depart  in  peace  from  his  town  of  Youghal. 
lie  gives  ye  two  days  to  embark.  If,  at  the  end  of 
that  time,  ye  still  remain,  he  considers  ye  are  his,  for 
death  or  life,  with  your  possessions  in  the  town.  God 
and  the  right!  ” 

“  Give  him,”  exclaimed  the  commander  of  the 
town,  who  was  now  standing  on  the  rampart,  “give 
him  one  sample  of  the  medicine  that  the  Red  Queen, 
as  he  calls  her,  sends  to  her  rebellious  subjects,  to 
cure  their  contumacy.  Gurth  of  the  Stream,  point 
that  falconet,  and  shoot  him  down  I  ” 

Gurth  was  ready  at  the  word ;  and  the  sound  of 
the  falconet’s  explosion  was  scarcely  ringing  in  their 
ears,  when  they  beheld  the  Knight  of  the  Red  Plume 
stretched  upon  the  plain.  He  was  not  hurt,  liow- 
ever,  though  the  ball  had  killed  his  horse,  which, 
falling,  brouglit  the  knight  to  the  ground,  partly 


46 


THE  MASTER  OF  LISFINRY. 


under  him.  The  gilly  was  determined  not  to  remain 
idle,  however.  It  was  amazing  to  see  with  what 
dexterity  he  extricated  his  master  from  beneath  the 
body  of  the  dead  steed,  and  mounted  him  on  his 
own;  then,  as  the  knight  spurred  away, half-stunned 
by  the  fall,  the  faitbfal  attendant  ran  by  his  side  with 
the  agility  of  a  deer,  until  they  reached  the  halting- 
place  of  their  brothers-in-arms. 

Night  had  fellen  upon  the  town  ;  but  the  sentinels 
were  still  watchful  upon  the  walls.  They  could  dis¬ 
tinguish  no  indications  of  a  stir  among  the  Irish, 
save  that,  ever  and  anon,  a  slight  murmur  arose  out¬ 
side,  at  some  distance  from  where  they  walked  their 
rouifds ;  and  black  masses,  which  they  took  for  the 
waving  shadows  of  trees,  appeared  to  move  to  and 
fro  in  every  direction,  amid  the  copse -wood  and 
scattered  forest.  The  morning  soon  explained  what 
these  black,  moving  masses  indicated.  The  sun 
had  scarcely  risen,  when  the  ramparts  were  again 
thronged  with  officers  and  men-at-arms ;  and,  looking 
out,  they  beheld  huge  piles  of  earth  and  brushwood, 
behind  which  the  Irish  forces  lay  crouched,  secure 
themselves,  but  close  enough,  and  in  positions,  to  pick 
off  with  musketry  the  defenders  of  the  walls.  No 
horses  could  be  seen, — they  were  picketed  in  tlie 
thick  forest  behind  ;  but  here  and  there  the  mouths 
of  cannons  protruded  from  the  brushwood  and 
clayey  ramparts,  while  the  shock  heads  of  the  fierce 
array  outside,  with  a  gleaming  helmet  occasionally 
amongst  them,  might  be  seen  popping  up  at  inter- 


THE  MASTER  OF  LISFINRY. 


47 


vals  from  the  covert,  and  examining  the  fortifications. 
All  at  once  a  wild  war-cry  arose  which  seemed  to 
proceed  from  every  part  of  the  forest.  This  was  fol¬ 
lowed  by  the  rolling  cracks  of  the  match-locks  and 
musketoons,  and  the  loud  roar  of  cannon,  which, 
with  the  answering  explosions  from  the  walls,  made 
a  din  that  soon  woke  the  town,  and  struck  terror 
into  its  inhabitants.  All  day  the  firing  continued 
with  considerable  loss  to  the  besieged.  In  several 
places,  the  walls  were  partially  breached ;  but,  in  one 
part,  the  foundations  seemed  to  have  entirely  given 
way,  a  few  perches  of  it  lying  almost  level  with  the 
ground.  Up  this  breach,  on  the  evening  of  that 
day,  a  large  body  of  the  Irish  were  rushing,  headed 
by  the  knights  and  gentlemen  who  composed  the 
officers  of  Desmond’s  army.  They  were  met  gal¬ 
lantly  by  the  English,  and  driven  back  almost  to 
their  intrenchments.  On  they  came  again,  however, 
crowding  up  the  breach  like  the  waves  of  the  sea. 
To  and  fro  swayed  the  combatants,  re-enforcements 
pouring  in  to  each  side,  until  the  whole  battle  seemed 
concentrated  round  that  breach.  The  Irish  were 
again  beginning  to  waver,  when  a  cry  arose  among 
them,  “  Crom  Aboo !  Follow  the  Red  Feather ! 
Hurrah  for  Lisfinry  and  the  Red  Plume  !  ”  and,  look¬ 
ing  up,  they  saw  the  Master  of  Lisfinry  far  above 
them  at  one  side ;  his  long  plume  waving,  and  his 
heavy  sword  clutched  in  both  hands,  as  he  hacked 
and  hewed  at  the  English  who  surrounded  him.  A 
simultaneous  rush  was  made  by  the  Irish  towards 


48 


THE  MASTER  OF  HSFINRY. 


this  point ;  and  tlie  English,  by  absolute  dint  of 
pressure,  body  to  body,  were  at  length  forced  to 
give  way,  and  retreat  from  the  walls,  the  Irish  fol¬ 
lowing  with  a  wild  shout  into  the  town.  At  this 
moment,  Gurth  of  the  Stream,  who  had  not  aban¬ 
doned  his  beloved  gun  till  the  last  extremity,  leaped, 
with  a  heavy  battle-axe  in  his  hand,  from  the  ram¬ 
part,  and,  coming  behind  the  Knight  of  Lisfinry,  with 
one  blow  brought  him  to  the  ground.  Friend  and 
foe  went  in  one  rush  over  the  body  of  the  knight ; 
but  he  heeded  them  not,  for  sorely  wounded  by  the 
axe  of  Gurth,  and  half-smothered  by  his  helmet,  he 
soon  sank  into  a  deep  swoon,  and  lay  as  heedless 
and  as  quiet  as  those  who  had  fared  even  worse,  and 
lay  dead  around  him.  The  battle  was  soon  over. 
The  English  were  almost  entirely  cut  to  pieces, 
very  few  of  them  escaping  to  their  ships  in  the  har¬ 
bor  ;  and,  as  night  fell,  the  entire  town  and  its  envi¬ 
rons  were  occupied  by  the  Irish  army. 

When  the  Knight  of  the  Red  Plume  awoke  to 
something  like  consciousness  from  his  stupor,  it  was 
in  the  house  of  Hugh  Walsh,  an  old  and  worthy  bur- 
o-ess  of  the  town,  who  had  been  favorable  to  the  in- 
terest  of  the  Earl  of  Desmond,  and  was,  therefore, 
now  left  in  peaceable  possession  of  his  property.  The 
room  in  which  the  knight  woke  was  somewhat  small 
in  its  dimensions.  It  was  floored  and  wainscoted  with 
oak  of  an  extremely  dark  color ;  but  its  gloom  was 
dissipated  by  a  beautifully-carved,  stone-sashed  win¬ 
dow,  which  threw  the  morning  light,  in  ^  cheerful 


THE  MASTER  OF  LISFINRY. 


49 


stream,  upon  the  wall  and  floor.  The  knight’s  first 
sensation  on  awaking  was  of  a  racking  j3ain  in  his 
head  and  every  member  of  his  body.  He  endeav¬ 
ored  to  turn  himself  upon  his  curtained  bed,  but 
could  not;  while,  at  the  same  time,  he  was  half-con¬ 
scious  of  the  presence  of  another  person  in  the 
room,  whom  he  tried  to  speak  to,  but,  in  a  few  mo¬ 
ments,  fell  into  a  half-awake  and  dreamy  stupor 
again.  While  this  lasted,  he  was  aware  of  a  voice 
singing  beside  him  in  a  low,  sweet  cadence  ;  and,  as 
he  recovered  again,  he  could  distinguish  the  words 
of  the  song.  They  floated  through  his  mind  with  a 
soothing  sweetness,  rendered  doubly  sweet  by  their 
contrast  with  the  clang  and  crash  of  battle  that  rang 
so  loudly  in  his  ears  on  the  evening  before.  The 
voice  sang  as  follows  the  words  of  an  old  love-song 
of  the  period ;  — 

I  met  within  the  greenwood  wild 
Mj  own  true  knight  that  loved  me  dearly. 

When  summer  airs  blew  soft  and  mild, 

And  linnets  sang,  and  waves  rolled  clearly; 

And,  oh  !  we  pledged  such  loving  vows. 

In  moss-grown  glade,  all  green  and  rilly. 

Where  lightly  waved  the  rustling  boughs 
^Mid  thy  dear  woods,  sweet  Imokilly ! 

I  met  my  love  in  festive  hall, 

'Mid  lords  and  knights  and  warriors  fearless; 

And  there  my  love,  among  them  all. 

To  my  fond  heart  was  ever  peerless  ; 

And  he  was  fond,  and  time  could  ne’er 
His  love  for  me  make  cold  and  chilly  : 


50 


THE  MASTER  OF  LIS  FIN  RY. 


Ah  !  then  I  knew  nor  grief  nor  care, 

’Mid  thy  green  woods,  sweet  Imokilly  ! 

From  Rincrew’s  turrets,  high  and  hoar. 

When  autumn  floods  were  wildly  sweeping, 

I  saw  my  love  ride  to  the  shore, 

I  saw  him  in  the  torrent  leaping. 

To  meet  me  ’neath  the  twilight  dim. 

In  bowery  nook,  secure  and  stilly  ; 

But  the  ruthless  waters  swallowed  him. 

By  thy  green  woods,  sweet  Imokilly  ! 

The  knisfht  now  made  an  endeavor  to  see  the  per- 
son  of  the  singer ;  but,  in  turning  over  for  that 
purpose,  he  threw  his  weight  upon  his  left  arm, 
which  had  been  broken  on  his  falling  beneath  the 
axe  of  Gurth,  and  the  sudden  spasm  of  pain  occa¬ 
sioned  by  the  movement  made  him  fall  backward 
with  a  heavy  groan.  He  was,  however,  on  looking 
up  once  more,  more  than  compensated  tor  the  pain 
he  caused  himself.  A  young  and  beautiful  girl  was 
bending  over  him,  and  regarding  him  with  a  look  in 
which  a  modest  shyness  was  blended  with  anxiety 
and  compassion.  Her  long  yellow  hair,  falling  in 
shining  tresses  upon  her  shoulders,  almost  touched 
the  face  of  the  knight  as  he  looked  up  half-woncler- 
struck;  and  she  adjusted  the  bed -covering  so 
gentl}  ,  and  handled  his  wounded  arm  so  tenderly, 
that  he  beg-an  to  think  himself  in  a  dream,  in  which 

O 

some  brio-ht  anscel  had  come  near,  and  was  minister- 

o  o 

iim  to  his  wants.  But  the  eftects  of  the  swoon  were 

O 

now  gradually  disappearing  from  his  brain ;  and  he 


THE  MASTER  OF  LISFINRY. 


51 


began  to  recollect  himself;  and  to  remember  the 
events  of  the  preceding  day.  He  now  began  to 
raise  himself  with  more  care,  and  endeavored  to  ask 
a  few  questions;  but  the  young  girl  put  her  hand 
to  her  lips,  and  motioned  him  that  he  was  to  keep 
silence,  and  to  try  and  sleep  once  more.  He  lay 
back,  and  fell  into  a  sweet  and  long  sleep,  from  which 
he  was  only  awaked  towards  evening  by  the  step 
of  some  one  entering  the  room.  It  was  the  kind 
leech,  an  old  monk,  who  had  set  his  arm  the  preced- 
ing  night,  and  bound  up  the  great  axe-wound  in  his 
head ;  and  he  was  now  coming  to  see  how  his  patient 
was  progressing. 

“James  of  Lisfinry,”  said  the  monk,  “the  town 
is  in  possession  of  my  kinsman,  the  Desmond,  who 
has  declared,  that,  were  it  not  for  thy  tact  and  thy 
bravery,  he  would  be  outside  the  walls  still.” 

“Who  art  thou?”  answered  the  knight.  “iVrt 
thou  Gerald  the  monk,  whose  life  I  saved  at  the 
foray  of  Sliabh  Gua  ?  ” 

“I  am  Gerald  the  Franciscan,”  said  the  monk; 
“  and,  by  God’s  special  grace,  I  am  enabled  and  pre¬ 
served  to  pay  back  the  debt, —  to  set  thy  broken 
arm  aright,  and  to  bind  up  the  great  wound  in  thy 
head,  through  which  thy  life  was  fast  oozing  last 
eventide.” 

“Hast  thou  found  the  child  of  thy  brother,  the 
murdered  Knight  of  Barna?  ”  asked  the  knight. 

“No,”  said  the  monk.  “It  was  in  my  wanderings 
to  find  her  that  the  vassals  of  Ormond  caught  mo 


52 


THE  MASTER  OF  LISFINRY. 


at  Sliabh  Gua,  and  took  me  for  a  spy;  and  then  my 
wanderings  would  have  ceased,  were  it  not  for  thy 
onslaught  on  my  captors.  Alas !  since  the  night  of 
the  murder  of  my  brother  and  his  followei-s,  in  his 
House  of  Barn  a,  I  have  wandered  for  years,  but 
can  find  no  traces  of  the  poor  little  maiden.  It 
is  ten  years  now  since  the  murderers  confessed  before 
they  died,  that  they  forgot  and  left  her  behind  at 
their  camping-place  in  the  forest.  She  was  but  seven 
years  old  then,  and,  ah  me  !  I  fear  she  died  of  hun¬ 
ger  and  cold,  or  that  the  wolves  fell  upon  lier;  and 
she  was  the  last  remnant  of  a  once  brave  and  o’al- 

O 

lant  house.  As  for  thee,  knight,”  he  continued, 
after  a  pause,  “  thou  wantest  but  quiet  and  sleep, 
and  a  good  nurse,  and  tliou  wilt  soon  be  able  to  take 
into  thy  hands  and  wield  tliat  good  sword  of  thine, 
that  did  thy  work  so  well  upon  our  persecutors 
yesterday.” 

“Ah!”  said  the  knight,  “had  I  the  nurse  that 
watched  over  me  this  morning !  ”  But  he  recollected 
himself,  and  changed  the  conversation.  “Think 
you,”  he  continued,  “that' the  English  will  return 
again,  and  attempt  to  recajature  the  town?  Would 
that  I  were  sound  in  head  and  limb  ere  they  did 
sol” 

“  I  know  not,”  answered  the  monk.  “  But,  in  the 
mean  time,  your  best  chance,  under  a  watchful 
Providence,  for  getting  into  bodily  soundness  again, 
is  to  speak  little,  and  to  keep  quiet,  and  fi-ee  from 
mental  trouble.” 


THE  MASTER  OF  TASFIKRY. 


63 


CHAPTER  II. 

We  shall  now  leave  the  Knight  of  the  Red 
Plume  to  his  repose,  and  follow  for  a  time  the  for¬ 
tunes  of  the  old  monk’s  niece,  the  Orphan  of  Barna, 
About  ten  years  anterior  to  the  time  of  the  fore¬ 
going  incident,  there  stood  an  old  castellated  man¬ 
sion  in  a  deep  gaji,  or  pass,  on  the  southern  declivity 
of  Sliabh  Gua,  or  Knockmeledown  Mountains.  In 
this  mansion  dwelt  Sir  Thomas  Fitzgerald,  or,  as  he 
was  more  frequently  called,  the  Knight  of  Barna, 
together  with  his  young  daughter,  and  a  few  follow¬ 
ers.  The  knight’s  wife  had  died  a  few  years  before ; 
and  he,  disabled  by  wounds  and  hardships  in  the 
Desmond  wars,  had  retired  to  spend  the  remainder 
of  his  life  in  his  House  of  Barna,  and  to  bring  up  his 
young  daughter,  the  sweetest  little  flower  that  ever 
Ifloomed  in  that  wild  and  turbulent  district. 

This  district  was,  in  fact,  another  Debatnble 
Land,  under  the  jurisdiction,  at  one  time,  of  the 
Earl  of  Desmond,  and  at  others  overrun  and  held 
in  subjection  by  the  great  rival  House  of  Ormond; 
so  that  the  only  protection  for  any  man,  lord,  or 
vassad  holding  territory  there,  was  his  owm  watch- 
tulness,  cunning,  or  bravery.  The  Knight  of  Barna, 
however,  deemed  himself  secure  enough,  being  a 
near  kinsman  of  the  Earl  of  Desmond;  and  thei'e- 
fore  less  liable  to  the  chances  of  being  plundered 


54 


THE  MASTER  OF  LISFINRY. 


than  the  other  followers  of  that  great  earl ;  and, 
dwelling  also  on  that  sIojdo  of  the  mountains  farthest 
from  the  territory  of  Ormond,  he  therefore  re¬ 
tained  but  a  few  followers  in  his  service,  who  could, 
at  best,  keep  but  scant  watch  and  waixl  around  his 
dwelling  of  the  gap  :  but  time  showed  him  the  bit¬ 
ter  foolishness  of  such  neglect. 

One  March  night,  the  Robber  of  Coumfay,  a 
fierce  and  implacable  enemy  of  the  Desmond  vas¬ 
sals,  sat  with  his  followers  upon  the  summit  of  a 
steep  hill  that  overlooked  the  House  of  Barna. 
The  robber  himself  was  in  the  act  of  addi-essing  his 
worthy  comrades ;  and  it  was  evident,  from  his 
remarks,  that  they  had  just  held  a  council  of  war, 
and  were  now  making  preparations  for  attacking 
the  mansion  beneath  them. 

“  For  myself,”  said  the  robber,  at  the'  conclusion 
of  his  address,  —  “for  myself,  I  want  but  tlie  head  of 
the  burning  old  murderer  himself.  He  hanged  my 
brother  at  the  gate  of  Youghal;  and  he  would  have 
broken  myself  upon  the  wheel,  had  I  not  mined  my 
dungeon  and  fled, —  and  fled,  to  have  this  night  of 
plunder  and  sweet  revenge  !  ” 

“  He  burnt  my  home  by  the  banks  of  Hier,”  ex¬ 
claimed  a  wild-looking  young  fellow  from  the  centre 
of  the  throng;  “  and  he  lopped  off  my  father’s  head 
with  one  sweep  of  his  sword,  at  the  ford  of  Dangan: 
and  I  say,  burning  for  burning,  and  head  for  head!  ” 

“  I  had  my  skean  at  tlie  throat  of  his  nephew  at 
the  battle  of  Lisroe,”  said  a  small,  dark-complexioned 


THE  MASTEll  OF  LISFINIiY. 


55 


mnn  near  the  chief ;  “  and  I  reinerabered  the  wrongs 
of  my  race,  and  would  have  my  trusty  skean  steeped 
to  the  hilt  in  his  blood,  only  for  the  charge  of 
the  Knight  of  Kin  crew,  who  bore  down  like  a 
torrent  with  his  men-at-arms  upon  us,  and  gave 
me  this  with  a  back-slash  of  his  sword,”  continued 
he,  baring  his  breast,  and  exhibiting  to  those  about 
him  the  mark  of  a  great  wound  extending  from  the 
shoulder  across  his  breast-bone.  “  But  to-niorht  we 

O 

can  pay  back  all.” 

“Yes,  and  pay  yourselves,”  exclaimed  the  Robber 
of  Coumfay;  “for  tlie  old  wolf  of  Barna  has  more 
gold  in  liis  house  than  the  mad  Knight  of  Dangan, 
who  shod  his  horse  with  it,  Down,  then,  and  fol¬ 
low  me ;  and  each  man  shall  have  his  own  revenge, 
and  tlie  fair  share  of  spoil  that  pertains  to  his  degree 
among  us.” 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  as  the  robbers  descended 
the  hill  towards  the  devoted  House  of  Barna.  Ko 
watch-dog  howled  from  the  courtyard,  no  sentinel 
looked  forth,  as  that  fierce-  and  merciless  body  of 
marauders  surrounded  the  house,  and  blocked  up 
tlie  gate  and  every  outlet  by  which  the  hapless 
sleepers  inside  might  have  a  chance  of  escaping. 
The  night  was  intensely  dark,  notwithstanding 
which  the  robbers  crouched  down  closely  by  the 
walls  and  hedges,  while  their  chief,  advancing  from 
the  gateway,  with  his  long  cloak  muffled  closely 
around  him,  sat  himself  cpiietly  down  in  the  middle 
of  the  courtyard.  Here  he  set  up  a  long,  wild, 


1 


56  the  master  of  lisfinry. 

wailing  cry,  like  that  of  a  woman  in  distress,  and 
continued  it,  louder  and  shriller,  until  at  length  a 
small  window  or  spy-vent  was  opened  beside  tlie 
door  of  the  mansion,  and  a  head  protruded  through 
the  orifice. 

“What  dost  thou  here,  thus  so  late  and  untime¬ 
ly?”  said  a  voice  wliich  the  robbers  recognized  at 
once  as  that  of  the  Knio-ht  of  Barna.  “  What 
bringest  thou  here,  woman?  and  why  dost  thou  dis¬ 
turb  my  house  with  thy  mad  wailing  ?  ” 

“  Lord  of  Barna,”  answered  the  robber,  feigning 
with  practised  skill  the  voice  of  a  woman,  “  J  am 
Oona,  the  wife  of  Shane  Gar  of  the  glen.  The  rob¬ 
bers  from  the  Ormond’s  laud  beset  our  house  at  the 
nightfall:  they  burned  all,  and  killed  iny  husband 
and  my  cliildren  ;  and  I  am  here  for  shelter  and 
vengeance !  ” 

There  was  now  a  prolonged  undoing  of  bolts  at 
the  strong,  iron-studded  door,  during  which  the 
Robber  of  Coumfay  stole  over  and  stood  silently 
beside  the  jamb,  under,  the  black  shadow  of  the 
porch.  The  door  was  now  cautiously  opened,  and 
the  knight,  half-dressed,  stepped  forth  ;  but  scarcely 
had  he  done  so,  when  a  strong  hand  clutched  him 
by  the  naked  throat,  and  the  robber’s  dagger  was 
plunged  and  drawn,  and  plunged  quickly  again  into 
his  heart.  He  fell  across  his  own  door-step  with  one 
heavy  groan,  and  never  stirred  more.  The  robber 
now  yelled  out  a  wild  and  exulting  cry,  at  whiph 
his  companions,  rushing  from  their  hiding-places, 


THE  MASTER  OF  LISFINRY. 


57 


broke  into  the  house,  and  began  to  plunder.  The 
affrighted  servants  were  all  killed,  either  in  their 
beds,  or  defending  themselves  upon  the  staircases ; 
and  the  robbers,  now  having  their  fill  of  plunder, 
assembled  in  the  courtyard,  and  prepared  to  set  fire 
to  the  house. 

“ The  daughter,  the  daughter!”  exclaimed  several 
voices,  as  they  recollected  that  she  was  still  unfound, 
and  inside.  “Bring  her  out,  and  we’ll  yet  have  a 
ransom  for  her !  ” 

“Leave  her  inside,”  said  the  small  dark  man  who 
had  spoken  at  the  consultation  upon  the  hill.  “  Leave 
her  inside,  I  say;  and  then  we’ll  have  our  revenge 
upon  the  old  wolf  of  Barna,  root  and  branch.” 

The  expected  ransom,  however,  carried  the  motion 
against  the  last  speaker;  and,  in  a  few  moments,  the 
knight’s  daughter  was  found,  cowering,  and  almost 
dead  with  affright,  upon  the  stairs,  and  brought  into 
the  midst  of  her  father’s  murderers.  One  of  them 
brought  out  a  small  cloak,  and,  Avrapping  it  around 
the  child,  took  her  in  his  arms,  and,  by  the  order  of 
his  chief,  prepared  for  their  wild  journey  homeward 
throuQ-h  the  forest.  The  house  Avas  uoav  set  fire  to 
in  several  places ;  and,  by  the  light  of  the  blazing 
I'oof,  the  robbers,  Avith  their  spoil,  turned  off  quickly 
toAvard  the  mountains. 

There  Avas  a  small  green  glade  by  the  bank  of  a 
little  stream  that  fell  into  the  Suir,  down  that  de¬ 
clivity  of  the  Knockmeledown  Mountains  facing  the 
plain  of  Tipperary,  and  farthest  from  the  luckless 


58 


THE  MASTER  OF  LIS  FINE  Y. 


House  of  Barna.  Here,  some  time  before  daybreak, 
the  robbers  halted  in  order  to  divide  the  spoil,  and 
to  take  some  refreshment  after  their  night  of  fatigue 
and  blood.  The  man  that  held  the  young  Orphan 
of  Barna,  now  laid  her  down  under  a  tree  by  a 
small  pathway,  where,  tired  out  by  the  motion  of 
the  wild  retreat  across  the  mountains,  the  poor  little 
thing  fell  into  a  deep  and  quiet  slumber.  Little  did 
the  poor  child  dream  at  that  moment,  on  her  chilly 
bed,  that  the  headless  body  of  her  father,  and  her 
father’s  vassals,  and  her  native  home  of  Barna,  were 
one  undistingnishable  mass  of  black  and  burnt 
ashes,  and  that  the  eyes  that  once  looked  pleasantly 
upon  her  were  dim  and  rayless,  and  the  lips  that 
often  kissed  her  pretty  cheeks  were  bloodless,  and 
parted  by  the  agony  of  a  violent  death,  a  few 
perches  beneath  her  upon  the  green.  The  Robber 
of  Coumfay,  one  of  the  most  bloodthirsty  and  mer¬ 
ciless  freebooters  of  the  time,  had  brought  his  share 
of  the  spoil  with  him,  —  namely,  the  head  of  the 
Knight  of  Bai’iia ;  and  had  laid  it  beside  him  as  he 
sat  in  the  midst  of  the  glade,  among  his  companions. 
Under  the  superintendence  of  their  leader,  the  spoil 
was  soon  divided  satisfactorily  among  the  robbers, 
and  they  all  now  prepared  to  refresh  themselves. 

“  Paudheen  Gob,  come  forth,”  said  the  leader, 
“and  give  us  a  morsel  of  that  bread  of  yours,  and  a 
draught  of  the  red  wine  you  brought  so  well 
through  the  forest.  You  must  have  the  largest 
draught  yourself  for  your  pains.” 


THE  MASTER  OF  LISFINRY. 


59 


The  worthy  distinguished  by  the  delightful  appel¬ 
lation  of  Paudheen  Gob  was  a  half-fool  kept  by  the 
robbers  for  their  amusement ;  but  he  also  served 
occasionally  as  a  most  useful  and  tractable  beast  of 
burden.  Tlie  literal  meaning  of  Paudheen  Gob  is 
Little  Paddy  of  the  Mouth ;  but  Paudheen  himself, 
like  Little  John,  the  bosom  friend  of  Robin  Hood, 
was  a  most  complete  antithesis  to  the  signification 
of  his  flattering  cognomen.  He  was  considerably 
over  six  feet  in  height,  with  a  formidable  breadth 
of  body  and  shoulders,  and  a  small  bullet-head,  gar¬ 
nished  with  a  mouth  reaching  almost  from  ear  to 
ear,  from  which  tremendous  orifice,  indeed,  he  de¬ 
rived  his  title  of  Paudheen  Gob. 

Paudheen  gave  a  groan  of  distress  and  fatigue, 
when  he  heard  the  call  of  h:s  chief ;  but  the  jjromise 
of  the  draught  of  wine  mollified  his  tribulation 
somewhat:  so,  arising  from  wdiere  lie  had  stretched 
himself  among  the  brushwood,  he  walked  into  the 
centre  of  the  throng  of  robbers,  and  laid  down  his 
burden,  which  consisted  of  some  manchets  of  bread, 
and  a  small  cask  of  wine  they  had  found  in  the 
House  of  Harna.  The  robbers  now  set  to  in  good 
earnest,  and  soon  despatched  the  bread.  The  wine, 
in  a  short  time,  shared  the  same  fate  ;  and  they  all 
stood  up,  half-intoxicated,  and  began  to  descend 
towards  the  plain.  They  were  fully  half  a  mile 
away  from  the  little  glade,  before  they  remembered 
that  they  had  left  the  young  Orphan  of  Barna 
behind  them;  so,  halting  once  more,  the  chief 


60 


THE  MASTER  OF  LISFINRY. 


ordered  Paiidheen  Gob  to  retrace  bis  steps,  and  bring 
her  with  him.  Paudheen,  not  at  all  relishing  an 
excursion  by  himself  backwards  through  the  ghostly 
darkness  of  the  forest,  began  to  whimper,  and  make 
excuses ;  but  a  few  bangs  from  the  flat  of  his  chiefs 
sword  across  the  shoulders  made  liim  dart  off  in  the 
direction  pf  the  sleeping  child.  To  Paudlieen’s  ex¬ 
cited  imagination,  as  he  went  along,  the  black  trunks 
of  the  trees  seemed  like  ranks  of  men-at-arms  ready  to 
receive  him  ;  and  when,  on  coming  towards  the  spot 
where  they  had  left  the  child,  he  saw  a  naked  frag¬ 
ment  of  a  tree  standing  before  him  in  the  path, 
with  a  few  sprigs  trembling  on  its  top,  and  one 
branch  projecting  upwards  like  a  spear,  his  affrighted 
brain  manufictured  it  into  a  knight  armed  at  all 
points  ;  and,  with  a  start  and  a  bound,  he  turned  and 
fled  back  again  in  the  direction  of  the  robbers. 
“Earla  Mor,  Earla  Mor !  ”  yelled  he,  as  he  dashed 
along  at  a  mad  pace  through  l^he  brushwood,  “The 
Great  Earl  is  afther  us  wid  all  his  min !  Shamus 
o’Coumfay,  save  me,  save  me,  or  Pm  kilt  an’  lost 
this  morthial  minnit !  ” 

Shamus  of  Coumfay  waited  until  the  fool  came 
up  ;  and  then,  thinking  from  Paudheen’s  mad  gesticu¬ 
lations  that  they  were  actually  pursued,  he  and  his 
companions  dashed  on  in  an  easterly  direction,  and 
took  to  the  mountains  once  more  in  order  to  reach 
the  cave  where  they  were  wont  to  hide  themselves 
and  their  spoil  on  occasions  like  this. 


THE  MASTER  OF  LISFINRY. 


61 


CHAPTER  III. 

It  was  broad  da}diglit  when  the  Orphan  of  Barna 
awoke ;  and  there,  sitting  upon  the  path,  she  beheld 
a  small,  handsome  man,  with  a  gittern,  or  guitar, 
across  his  knee,  other  extraordinary-looking  para¬ 
phernalia  around  him,  and  a  young,  pale  woman 
beside  him,  who  seemed  to  be  his  wife.  The  change 
of  scene  was  such  a  wild  contrast  to  her  home,  that 
the  poor  little  maiden  began  to  rub  her  eyes,  think¬ 
ing  it  all  a  dream ;  but,  gradually  awaking  to  the 
■  consciousness  of  her  situation,  she  sank  back  shiver¬ 
ing  upon  her  couch  of  grass,  with  a  low,  despairing 
cry.  The  young  woman  now  arose,  and,  with  affec¬ 
tionate  care,  took  the  child  in  her  arms,  and  began 
to  chafe  her  cold  hands,  asking,  at  the  same  time, 
a  variety  of  questions. 

When  the  orphan  had  answered  all,  and  told  the 
circumstances  of  her  situation,  as  well  as  the  cold 
and  terror  would  allow  her,  the  young  woman 
turned  to  her  husband,  and  began  to  hold  a  short 
consultation  with  him. 

“I  think,  Jamie  Bell,”  said  she,  “we  have  fallen 
upon  a  good  chance.  Since  our  sweet  child  died, 
^  there  is  no  one  to  dance  to  thy  gittern,  or  jangle 
the  blitlio  tambour,  save  myself ;  and  I  am  now,  as 
thou  knowest,  ill  able  to  do  it.” 

Jamie  Bell  was  one  of  those  itinerant  jugglers,  or 


62 


THE  MASTER  OF  LISFINRY. 


gleemen,  who,  at  that  time,  roved  about  in  England 
from  shire  to  shire,  seeming  to  own  no  locality  as 
their  native  place.  Jamie’s  genius,  however,  seemed 
to  have  been  somewhat  disregarded  in  England; 
so,  leaving  his  native  country  with  his  wife,  he  had 
landed  in  Waterford  some  time  previous;  and  now, 
rambling  about  through  the  English-inhabited  towns 
along  the  coast,  he  was  doing  a  most  flourishing 
business. 

“Yes,”  answered  Jamie,  “we  cannot  do  better 
than  adopt  her  as  our  own.  Besides,  she  has  now 
no  friends  that  we  can  find ;  and  were  we  to  take 
her  back,  and  the  wild  Irish  of  that  country  to  find 
her  with  us,  truly  we  should  stand  the  blame,  and 
the  deep  dungeon  or  the  gallows-tree  would  be  our 
guerdon  for  saving  her.  We  will  keep  her,  Lucy.” 

“Wouldst  thou  like,”  said  Lucy,  turning  to  the 
child,  —  “  wouldst  thou  wish,  my  pretty  dear,  to 
come  along  wi’  us  ?  and  we  will  give  thee  brave 
spangled  dresses,  and  that  pretty  tambour  yonder 
to  ifiay  upon.” 

The  orphan  only  nestled  closer  to  the  breast  of 
the  gleeman’s  wife ;  but  she  answered  nothing. 

“The  dress  of  our  own  pretty  Maud  —  poor  dear 
Maud!  —  will  suit  her,”  said  Lucy;  and  with  that 
she  directed  her  husband  to  open  a  box  beside  him, 
from  which  she  took  a  small,  light-colored  but  com¬ 
fortable  dress,  in  which  she  quickly  arrayed  the 
young  Orphan  of  Barna.  Lucy  now  clipped  the 
long,  bright  locks  of  the  little  orphan ;  so  that  in 


THE  MASTER  OF  LISFINRY. 


63 


the  strange  dress,  and  the  strange  company  she  was 
in,  it  would  be  impossible  to  recognize  her. 

For  three  years  the  Orphan  of  Barna  rambled 
from  town  to  town  with  the  gleeman  and  his  wife, 
during  which  time  she  grew  more  beautiful  day  by 
day,  and  got  to  play  upon  the  gittern  and  tambour 
with  unwonted  skill,  and  to  do  all  other  things  per¬ 
taining  to  the  office  of  a  glee-maiden.  One  day, 
Jamie  Bell,  his  wife,  and  the  orphan  were  showing 
off  some  of  their  performances  before  the  admiring 
eyes  of  the  English  soldiers,  in  the  courtyard  of  one 
of  the  garrisons  in  Waterford.  Tlie  young  lady  of 
Barna  was  dancing  to  the  tune  of  Jamie’s  gittern, 
when  the  wife  of  one  of  the  officers,  passing  in, 
stopped  to  have  a  view  of  the  performance.  After 
looking  at  the  child,  the  lady,  who  was  accompanied 
by  her  husband,  approached  Lucy. 

“1  want  a  maiden,  such  as  yon  child,  to  wait  upon 
me,”  said  she.  “Wilt  thou  let  her  stay  with  me  ?  or 
is  she  thy  daughter?  for  methiuks  she  bears  no 
resemblance  to  thy  countenance  or  that  of  thy  hus¬ 
band.” 

.  Jamie,  who  overheard  this  conversation,  before 
his  wife  could  answer,  came  forward.  He  was, 
it  appears,  in  great  distress,  and  under  some  pecu¬ 
niary  misfortune  at  the  time;  and  now  a  thought 
occui'red  to  his  mind  that  he  could  easily  remedy 
all. 

“She  is  not  our  daughter,  lady,”  said  he.  “We 
rescued  her  from  death  at  one  time ;  and  as  she 


64 


THE  MASTER  OF  LISFINRY. 


was  an  orphan,  with  no  one  to  keep  her,  we  kept 
her,  and  brought  her  up,  as  thou  seest.  We 
will  give  her  to  thee.  What,  lady,  wilt  thou  give 
us  in  return  for  her  ?  ” 

Half  a  dozen  broad  gold-j)ieces  easily  satisfied  the 
conscience  of  Jamie ;  but  not  so  his  wife,  who,  with 
many  tears  and  lamentations,  saw  the  orphan,  weep¬ 
ing  bitterly  also,  led  into  the  gai’rison  by  the  officer 
and  lady. 

About  two  months  after  this,  while  Jamie  the 
gleeman  was  spreading  his  fame  in  the  city  of  Kil¬ 
kenny,  his  wife  took  sick  and  died.  With  her  last 
breath,  she  abjured  Jamie  to  go  and  get  back  the 
little  lady  of  Barna ;  and  rejjresented  to  him,  as  an 
incitement,  the  assistance  she  would  be  to  him  in 
his  avocation.  Jamie  promised,  although  he  had 
but  a  very  slight  notion  of  refunding  the  gold- 
pieces,  to  get  back  the  child ;  but  in  a  few  days  he 
began  to  feel  the  misery  of  being  quite  alone  in  the 
world.  So,  in  a  fit  of  desperation,  Jamie  set  off  for 
Waterford,  and  flourished  so  well  as  he  went  by  the 
various  towns,  villages,  and  castles,  that,  on  reaching 
his  destination,  he  found  his  pockets  so  plentifully 
supplied,  that,  without  many  avaricious  qualms,  he 
could  easily  give  back  the  money  he  received  from 
the  officer’s  lady.  But  it  seems  it  was  far  easier  to 
give  the  money  than  to  get  back  the  young  orj)han ; 
and  the  sad  reality  was  demonstrated  in  a  most 
summary  manner  to  poor  Jamie  on  his  demand  for 
breaking  up  the  bargain.  He  was  taken  up  as  an 


THE  MASTER  OF  LISFINRY. 


65 


impostor,  and  put  in  tlie  stocks  before  the  gate  of 
the  fortress.  All  day  long,  during  every  moment 
he  could  recall  his  mind  from  his  harsh  treatment, 
and  the  scoffs  and  jeers  of  the  soldiers  and  passen¬ 
gers,  Jamie  sat  planning  how  he  could  repay  them 
for  the  indignity.  He  was  set  at  liberty  in  the  even¬ 
ing,  and  next  day  concealed  himself  by  the  side  of 
a  little  green  below  the  ramparts  of  the  castle, 
where  the  children  of  the  officers  were  in  the  habit 
of  jdaying.  About  noon,  to  his  great  joy,  he  beheld 
the  young  lady  of  Barna  coming  out  with  some 
children  ;  and,  unobserved  by  the  others,  ho  beck¬ 
oned  to  her.  She  knew  him  at  once,  and  came  joy¬ 
fully  to  him ;  and  the  sweetness  of ’S^amie’s  tonarue 
was  such,  that  she  consented  to  accompany  him,  and 
to  leave  the  fortress,  of  which  she  seemed  heartily 
tired.  They  were  both  soon  beyond  pursuit,  and 
thus  once  more  the  OrjDhan  of  Barna  was  leading 
the  wandering  life  of  a  glee-maiden. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

It  is  now  time  to  return  to  the  Master  of 
Lisfinry,  whom  we  left  so  sorely  wounded  in 
his  bed.  After  the  departure  of  the  monk,  lie 
dozed  away  into  a  quiet  sleep,  but  awoke  at  inter¬ 
vals  during  the  night;  for  his  wounds  were  now 


5 


66 


THE  MASTER  OF  LISFINRY. 


becoming  much  more  painful  than  during  the  time 
elapsing  immediately  after  their  infliction.  When¬ 
ever  he  awoke,  he  was  sensible,  by  some  light 
stir  or  breathing,  of  tl)e  presence  of  the  young  girl 
in  the  room  ;  and  the  feeling  that  he  was  tended  and 
watched  by  such  a  handsome  nurse  made  his  hours 
of  sleeping  and  Avaking  SAveeter  till  the  morning. 
Then  the  bright  light  streamed  in,  and,  aAvaking  fully, 
he  looked  around  ;  but  the  young  girl  was  gone,  and 
in  her  place  stood  the  master  of  the  house,  the 
woi’thy  Hugh  Walsh  himself,  with  his  portly  and 
good-natured  wife. 

“  Sir  knight,”  said  Hugh,  “  after  the  battle,  my 
lord,  the  Desiliond,  did  me  the  high  honor  of  di¬ 
recting  that  you  should  be  sent  to  my  house,  as  you 
were  too  weak  to  be  removed.  I  trust  that  you  have 
found  the  humble  attendance  we  were  able  to  give, 
pleasing,  and  that  you  Avill  soon  be  strong,  and  able 
to  do  the  deeds  pertaining  to  a  gallant  knight 
again.” 

“  I  trust  so,  too,”  said  the  smiling  dame.  “  The 
bed,  mayhap,  is  rather  hard  for  the  comfort  of  your 
Avorship ;  but  it  is  even  softer  than  Father  Gerald 
Avould  allow  you,  after  binding  up  your  wounds.” 

“My  Avorthy  host  and  hostess,”  answered  the 
knight,  “I  feel  as  delectable  as  man  can  in  such  a 
case.  As  for  the  pains  that  trouble  me  now  and 
then,  it  is  not  the  fault  of  the  bed  or  of  the  nursing 
I  have  got,  but  o‘f  fortune  and  my  Avounds.  But  I 
trust  I  shall  soon  be  Avell ;  and,  as  Master  of  Lisfinry, 


THE  MASTER  OF  LISFINRY. 


67 


I  shall  not  forget  the  kind  nursing  I  am  receiving 
under  your  roof.” 

Day  after  day  the  Knight  of  the  Red  Plume  con¬ 
tinued  under  the  kind  nursing  of  Hugh  Walsh  and 
his  wife,  and  the  lovely  Margai’et,  and  at  length  be¬ 
came  stronsr  enousch  to  arise  and  move  about,  with- 
out,  however,  leaving  the  precincts  of  his  room.  It 
was  now  nearly  a  month  after  the  taking  of  the  town ; 
and  he  was  sitting  in  his  room,  thinking  of  some 
pi'eparations,  for  on  the  morrow  he  was  to  leave  his 
kind  nurses,  and  proceed  to  the  Castle  of  Lisfinry, 
from  which  the  Earl  of  Desmond  had  but  lately 
departed  with  his  retainers  in  order  to  take  up  his 
abode  in  another  castle.  The  town  of  Youghal 
was  now  in  possession  of  a  garrison  left  there  by 
the  earl;  and  every  thing  was  going  on  as  quietly  in 
its  streets  as  though  the  crash  and  clamor  of  war 
had  never  rung  along  its  fortifications,  or  echoed  in 
its  mansions.  As  the  knight  sat  thus  thinking,  the 
image  of  the  sweet  girl -who  had  nursed  him  so 
well  during  his  illness  continually  arose  in  his  mind ; 
and,  in  spite  of  himself,  a  feeling  of  fondness  and 
tenderness  (which  he  would  not,  but  many  would, 
call  love)  began  to  grow  in  his  heart,  as  he  thought 
of  her  unremitting  and  devoted  attention  to  him, — 
in  spite  of  himself ;  for  how  could  he,  a  high-born 
knight,  think  of  loving  a  girl,  who,  however  beauti¬ 
ful,  was  lowly-born,  and,  according  to  the  precepts 
of  those  times,  unfit  to  mate  with  any  of  his  class, 
proud  noblemen  who  looked  often  down  with  scorn 


68 


THE  MASTER  OF  LISFIEUY. 


on  those  of  humbler  birth,  however  wealthy  ?  Still, 
he  thought  he  saw  something  noble  about  the  young 
Margaret  Walsh,  in  her  features,  in  her  bearing,  and 
in  her  actions.  In  this  mood  of  mind  he  was, 
when,  towards  sunset,  tlie  oft-recurring  subject  of 
his  thoughts  entered  the  room,  and  sat  down  —  her 
usual  way  of  keeping  him  occupied  in  conversation 
—  on  a  low  chair  near  him. 

“  My  pretty  Margaret,”  exclaimed  the  knight, 
“time,  no  matter  how  sweet  and  delightful,  must 
have  an  end.  We  part  to-morrow;  but,  though  it 
will  and  must  be  a  long  parting,  the  memory  of 
your  kindness  shall  remain  with  me  wherever  my 
fate  leads  me.” 

“Sir  James,”  said  Margaret,  looking  up  into  the 
face  of  the  knight  with  an  innocent  but  concerned 
look,  “  the  kindness,  —  if  I  may  call  it  so, —  tlie  kind¬ 
ness  I  have  shown  was  but  befitting  from  me,  the 
daughter  of  the  Desmond’s  most  favored  servant, 
to  a  kinsman  of  the  Desmond.  But  I  fear  me  about 
your  going  in  your  present  weak  state;  and  there 
are  strange  rumors  in  the  town,  of  hostile  ships  being 
seen  sailing  along  the  coast,  and  of  another  siege 
of  the  town  by  the  English  forces  from  Waterford.” 

“Ila!”  exclaimed  the  knight:  “they  dare  not. 
The  Desmond  is  too  strong  in  this  territory  at  pres¬ 
ent  ;  and  it  must  be  some  merchant-vessels  the  idle 
loons  in  the  town  have  magnified  into  war-galleys.” 

The  night  had  now  fallen  upon  the  town,  and  Sir 
James  of  Lisfinry  and  Margaret  were  still  convers- 


THE  MASTEE  OF  LrSFfHEV. 


OS) 


ing ;  when,  all  at  once,  they  heard  the  boom  of  a 
cannon  from  the  direction  of  the  harbor.  This  was 
followed  by  a  confused  murmur  and  stir  in  the 
town ;  then  came  tlie  booming  of  many  cannons 
again,  and  the  rattle  of  musketry  ;  and  no  doubt  was 
left  upon  the  knight’s  mind,  that  what  Margaret  had 
told  him  was  too  true,  — that  the  English  had  made 
a  descent  upon  tlie  town,  and  were  determined  to 
have  it  by  storm.  The  knight  had  not  left  his  room 
since  he  first  entered  it,  and  was  still  so  weak  that 
he  found  himself  unable  to  descend  the  stairs  unas¬ 
sisted  ;  and  his  mind  chafed  within  him  to  think  that 
he  should  sit  there,  an  idle  listener  to  the  contest, 
and  be  incapable  of  rendering  any  assistance  to  the 
gai'rison.  Hugh  Walsh  himself  now  made  his 
appearance,  in  the  greatest  pertm-bation,  and  said 
that  the  English  had  indeed  returned  under  Capt. 
White,  one  of  the  most  zealous  leaders  on  the  side 
of  the  queen,  and  had,  whether  by  treachery  or 
bravery  he  could  not  say,  actually  entered  the  town, 
and  driven  out  the  garrison.  He  said  that  the 
knight’s  only  chance  of  safety  consisted  in  his  allow¬ 
ing  himself  to  be  removed  with  all  possible  speed, 
and  concealed  in  a  small  apartment  he  had  prepared 
for  the  ])urpose.  The  knight,  assisted  by  Hugh 
Walsh  and  his  brisk  young  shopman,  was  soon  set¬ 
tled  in  his  place  of  concealment,  a  small  room  at 
the  extreme  back  of  the  merchant’s  storehouse,  and 
from  which  a  diminutive  window  looked  out  on 
a  narrow  street  called  the  Sword-bearer’s  Close. 


70 


THE  MASTER  OF  LISFTNRY. 


Yongbal  was  once  more  in  the  possession  of  the  Eng¬ 
lish.  After  a  few  days,  however,  every  thing  went 
on  quietly,  with  the  exception  of  a  little  pillage  on 
the  part  of  the  conquerors ;  but  they  now  kept  such 
a  sharp  watch  at  the  gates  and  on  the  walls,  that  it 
was  impossible  for  the  knight  to  make  his  escape. 
So  he  was  fain  to  content  himself  with  his  little 
prison,  as  he  called  it,  and  the  society  occasionally 
of  the  honest  Hugh  and  his  wife,  but  more  fre¬ 
quently  of  the  young  and  winning  Margaret. 

Day  by  day  the  thoughts  of  the  knight  dwelt 
more  and  more  continually  upon  the  loveliness  and 
engaging  manners  of  the  young  girl.  The  voice  of 
reason  often  called  back  his  mind  from  those  day¬ 
dreams  to  the  plain  reality  of  the  case  :  but  the 
knight  was  young;  and,  at  his  age,  the  voice  of  the 
heart  is  moi'e  willingly  listened  to  than  the  more 
matter-of-fact  warnings  of  reason.  So,  by  slow  but 
sweet  degrees,  he  fell  in  love,  and  got  to  think  upon 
his  beautiful  young  nurse  with  other  thoughts  than 
those  with  which  he  regarded  her  on  his  first  enter¬ 
ing  the  little  chamber  in  Hugh’s  dwelling. 


CHAPTER  V. 

It  was  now  three  weeks  after  the  entrance  of  the 
English.  The  Sword-bearer’s  Close  was  the  abode 
of  a  number  of  the  prettiest  girls  in  the  town,  and, 


THE  MASTER  OF  LISFINRY. 


71 


in  consequence  of  this  delightful  fact,  became  the 
resort  of  several  of  the  young  soldiers  from  the  gar- 
I’ison.  One  day,  while  the  knight  and  Margaret 
Walsh  were  conversing  in  the  little  room,  some  dis¬ 
turbance  arose  outside  in  the  Close.  Margaret  was 
taking  a  hasty  look  through  the  little  window  at 
what  was  passing,  when  a  young  corporal,  who  was 
in  the  crowd,  turning  suddenly  round,  caught  her 
eye,  and,  thinking  himself  the  sole  and  undivided 
object  of  her  attention,  put  on  a  most  amiable  and 
engaging  look,  left  the  throng,  and  swaggered,  with 
the  air  of  a  youthful  Alexander,  several  times  up 
and  down  before  the  window.  Margaret  immedi¬ 
ately  drew  back,  and  saw  no  more  of  the  amorous 
corporal  for  that  day.  But  the  next  morning  he 
was  there  again,  with  his  steel  cap,  back-and-breast, 
and  all  his  other  accoutrements  burnished  up  with 
an  unwonted  degree  of  care.  But  this  time,  not 
contenting  himself  with  a  useless  perambulation  along 
the  street,  he  came  over,  and  gave  a  glance  of  his 
enamoured  eyes  through  the  little  window  into  the 
chamber  of  the  knight,  and  was  rewarded  for  his 
devotedness  by  catching  a  glimpse  of  the  lovely 
Margaret  inside.  Fortunately,  the  knight  was  sit¬ 
ting  in  a  corner  which  was  not  visible  to  the  gay 
corjioral ;  but  on  seeing  Margaret  cast  herself  with 
a  frightened  countenance  into  the  opposite  corner, 
and  on  inquiring  the  cause  of  her  trepidation,  she 
told  him  of  the  insinuating  face  at  the  window,  and 
wariied  bini  to  t)e  on  his  guard.  The  knight,  how- 


72 


THE  MASTER  OF  LISFINRY. 


ever,  in  spite  of  the  warning,  started  up  and  ap¬ 
proached  the  window;  but  the  soldier  was  gone. 
Early  on  the  same  evening,  the  knight  was  sitting 
alone  in  his  narrow  room,  and  thinking  on  his  situ¬ 
ation  in  a  rather  unpleasant  frame  of  mind,  when 
the  coaxing  face  of  the  corporal  appeared  once 
more,  peering  in  at  the  window.  It  was  an  ill- 
starred  moment  for  both ;  for  the  Master  of  Lisfinry 
rendered  irritable  and  over-hasty  by  the  sickness 
of  his  wounds,  and  unable  to  bear  the  troublesome 
curiosity  of  the  corporal  any  longer,  seized  a  small 
iron  weight  that  accidently  lay  beside  him,  and, 
flinging  it  with  his  utmost  force  at  the  forehead 
of  the  unfortunate  gazer,  stretched  him,  bleeding 
and  senseless,  upon  the  rough  pavement  out¬ 
side.  Some  of  the  corporal’s  comrades,  making 
their  appearance  at  the  moment,  created  a  tremen¬ 
dous  disturbance  on  his  account;  at  which  an  officer, 
with  a  guard  of  soldiers,  was  ordered  down  from 
the  garrison  in  order  to  investigate  the  matter.  The 
result  was,  that  Hugh  Walsh’s  house  and  premises 
were  searched,  and,  as  a  matter  of  course,  half-pil¬ 
laged,  and  the  knight’s  place  of  concealment  found. 
The  door  was  instantly  forced  in  ;  but  the  Knight 
of  Lisfinry  was  not  at  all  disposed  to  give  himself 
peaceably  into  the  hands  of  his  enemies;  and  so  the 
first  man  that  entered  received  six  or  eight  inches 
of  steel  beneath  his  corselet,  and  fell,  mortally 
wounded,  beside  the  doorway.  Several  now  rushed 
in ;  but  the  foremost,  after  a  few  cuts  and  parries, 


THE  MASTER  OF  LISFINRY. 


78 


got  a  slash  of  the  knight’s  sword,  which  went  sheer 
through  the  bars  of  his  basnet,  or  helmet,  terribly 
wounding  him  along  the  face,  and  stretching  him 
upon  the  prostrate  body  of  his  comrade.  Tim 
knight  now  retreated  to  the  opposite  corner  of  the 
room,  determined  to  die  where  he  stood,  and  still 
keeping  a  clear  space  around  him  with  the  sweep  of 
his  long  sword. 

“Yield  thee,  sir  knight,  or  whatever  we  may 
call  thee,”  said  the  officer  of  the  guard,  —  “  yield  thee, 
or  we  shall  cut  thee  to  pieces  where  thou  standest, 
or  else  set  fire  to  the  house,  and  burn  thee  to  cin¬ 
ders  with  the  worthless  rebel  caitiif  who  concealed 
thee.” 

The  latter  part  of  this  threat,  namely,  the  burn¬ 
ing  of  the  premises  of  Hugh  Walsh,  with  the  body 
of  the  worthy  burgess  himself,  had  far  more  effect 
upon  his  mind  than  the  first  clause ;  so,  giving  up 
his  sword  to  the  officer,  he  was  marched  out  of  his 
place  of  concealment,  and  lodged  quietly  in  the 
strongest  dungeon  of  the  fortress.  There  he  had 
ample  leisure  to  think  over  the  impropriety  that 
heroes  and  heroines,  captives,  prisoners,  and  all 
others  in  similar  situations,  are  guilty  of  in  giving 
way  to  their  passions,  whether  of  rage  or  sorrow, 
instead  of  sagely  and  peaceably  mining,  countei- 
mining,  and  plotting  their  escape;  and  there  we 
shall  leave  him  for  a  time  to  ruminate  over  his 
misfortunes. 

It  w'^as  in  the  beginning  of  autumn.  The  English 


74 


THE  MASTER  OF  LISFINRY. 


had  held  the  town  in  their  possession  for  somewhat 
more  than  a  month,  when  once  more  the  fierce 
war-cry  of  the  Irish  resounded  along  the  walls ;  for 
the  Seneschal  of  Imokilly,  with  all  the  warlike  in¬ 
habitants  of  that  and  the  surrounding  districts,  ap¬ 
peared  suddenly  from  the  woods,  and  surrounded 
the  fortifications  on  all  sides.  This  time,  no  herald  ' 
was  sent  to  summon  the  garrison  to  surrender.  On 
came  the  Irish  in  long  lines  and  thick  masses,  and, 
filling  the  deep  ditches  with  their  fascines  of  brush¬ 
wood,  gallantly  scaled  the  ramparts,  amidst  a  storm 
of  cannon-balls  and  small  shot.  The  walls  were  well 
manned  ;  but  the  English,  despite  their  bravery,  were 
soon  driven  off  the  ramparts  of  the  castle,  and  from 
that  to  the  seaward  gate  of  the  town,  where  they 
rallied  their  numbers,  and  made  a  last  and  gallant 
stand. 

It  was  just  at  this  moment  that  the  Master  of 
Lisfinry  heard  the  sound  of  a  couple  of  heavy  battle- 
axes  breaking  in  his  prison-door,  which  feat  was 
soon  accomplished;  and  Hugh  Walsli,  his  shojnnan, 
and  Gerald  the  monk,  stood  before  him. 

“  Sir  knight,” ,  said  Hugh,  “  we  are  free  once 
more ;  for  the  seneschal  has  made  good  his  oath  that 
he  would  take  the  town ;  and  has  burst  over  the 
walls,  and  driven  the  English  to  the  sea-gate.  Take 
this,”  continued  Hugh,  giving  the  knight  a  long, 
heavy  sword.  “  They  I’ally  there  under  the  protec¬ 
tion  of  their  guns  from  the  harbor,  and,  I  fear  me, 
will  regain  the  castle  again.” 


THE  MASTEU  OF  LISFINRY. 


75 


The  knight  took  the  sword,  and,  rushing  from 
the  castle,  put  himself  at  the  head  of  a  body  of  Irish 
who  were  beginning  to  refresh  themselves  after 
the  fatigue  of  battle  with  a  little  pillage.  “  Lisfinry, 
Lisfinry  aboo !  ”  yelled  his  new  followers ;  for  they 
recognized  him  in  a  moment.  They  soon  reached 
the  sea-gate ;  and  there  the  knight  indemnified 
himself  so  well  for  his  long  inactivity,  that  the 
English  were  in  a  short  time  cut  to  pieces  almost  to 
a  man. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

It  was  evening.  The  knight  accompanied  Gerald 
the  monk  as  he  went  about  along  the  streets  and 
ramparts,  applying  remedies  to  the  wounded,  and 
shriving  those  that  were  upon  the  iDoint  of  death. 
As  they  crossed  down  a  narrow  street,  they  beheld 
a  dying  man  before  them,  with  his  head  resting  on 
a  small  tambour,  and  a  broken  gittern  in  fragments 
beside  him. 

“  Sir  monk,”  said  the  prostrate  man,  “  I  fear  me  I 
am  about  to  die.  Wilt  thou  hear  what  I  have  to 
say,  and  shrive  me  for  my  misdeeds  ?  Quick,  quick, 
for  my  moments  are  numbered,”  he  continued,  as  a 
gush  of  dark  blood  burst  forth  from  his  wounded 
breast. 

The  monk  bent  down  and  heard  his  confession, 


76 


THE  MASTER  OF  LIS  FIERY. 


and  was  about  to  move  away  in  the  direction  of 
another  group  of  the  wounded  and  dying,  when 
the  man,  by  a  sudden  effort,  raised  himself  into  a 
sitting  postui’e,  and  desired  him  to  remain. 

“  Take  this,”  he  said,  putting  a  small  gold  locket 
into  the  monk’s  hand:  “this  I  found  around  the 
neck  of  a  young  child  that  I  discovered,  ten  years 
ago,  in  the  forest  of  Sliabh  Gua.” 

“  How  ?  ”  exclaimed  the  monk  greatly  agitated, 
his  mind  reverting  in  a  moment  to  his  lost  niece. 

“  How  came  she  in  the  forest  ?  and  by  what  name  did 
she  call  herself?” 

“  She  called  herself  Margaret  of  Barna,’’  an¬ 
swered  Jamie  Bell ;  for  it  was  he.  “We  brought  her 
up,  I  trust,  kindly,  as  we  would  our  own  child. 
My  wife  died ;  and,  about  two  years  after,  I  fell  into 
a  lingering  sickness  myself,  and  was  unable  to  sup¬ 
port  the  child  any  longer.  I  came  to  Youghal  in 
order  to  take  ship  for  my  own  bonnie  Lincoln,  and 
met  a  kind  merchant  standing  with  his  wife  at  their 
door.  I  begged  them,  for  the  sake  of  Him  who 
died  for  us  all,  to  keep  the  little  girl  till  I  could  come 
back  and  take  her  with  me  to  England;  and  they,  ' 
although  they  thought  she  was  my  daughter,  in  the 
kindness  of  their  hearts  took  her  in,  and  promised 
to  give  her  a  home.  Hugh  Walsh,  I  mind  it  well, 
was  the  kind  merchant’s  name.  I  came  back  for  the 
bonnie  child ;  and,  woe  is  me !  I  shall  never  see  her 
blithe  face  again,.” 

The  gleeman  was  sinking  gradually  during  his 


TEE  MASTER  OF  LISFINRY.  ■ 


77 


story;  and,  at  the  last  words,  his  head  fell  suddenly 
back  upon  his  beloved  tambour,  his  legs  were  drawn 
up,  and  jerked  out  with  a  quick  spasm  ;  and  the 
monk,  bending  low  to  help  him  in  his  extremity, 
found  that  he  was  dead. 

« 

“  Sir  James  of  Lisfinry,”  exclaimed  the  delighted 
monk,  turning  to  the  knight,  who,  the  while,  was 
standing  at  a  little  distance,  “  I  can  tell  thee  blithe 
news,  —  news  that,  from  what  I  have  many  times 
noticed  during  thy  illness,  thou  ait  far  more  con¬ 
cerned  in  than,  perchance,  thou  wottest.  My  wan¬ 
derings  are  ended.  I  have  found  the  lost  child  of 
my  poor  brother  of  Barna !  ” 

“  How,”  exclaimed  the  knight,  a  wild  and  delight¬ 
ful  suspicion  flitting  through  his  mind,  —  “how 
hast  thou  found  her?  and  how  am  I  concerned  in 
her  discovery,  more  than  befits  a  knight  and  a  dis¬ 
tant  kinsman  ?  ” 

“Margaret,  Margaret  thy  kind  and  pretty  nurse,” 
said  the  monk,  “  is  not  the  adopted  daughter  of 
tlie  good  merchant,  Hugh,  —  she  is  my  niece,  the 
young  lady  of  Barna  !  ” 

The  monk  now  quickly  explained  all  to  the 
knight,  and  continued,  “Thou  lovest  her,  sir 
knight;  and  I  could  see  from  her  bearing  towards 
tliee  that  she  loves  thee,  too,  nmll  and  truly. 
She  is  an  orphan,  but  the  daughter  of  a  brave 
knight,  and  will  have  her  father’s  district  of  Barna. 
Yet  methinks  she  can  nowhere  find  a  braver  pro¬ 
tector  or  a  fonder  husband  than  the  young  Knight 
of  Lisfinry.” 


78 


THE  MASTER  OF  LISFINRY. 


It  were  long  to  tell  the  wise  saws,  maxims,  and 
gratulations  of  Hugh  Walsh  and  his  portly  wife, 
when  the  monk  and  knight  proceeded  to  their  house, 
and  explained  all.  It  may  be  pathetic  and  amusing, 
but  at  the  same  time  it  is  now  needless,  to  dilate 
upon  the  love-meeting  of  Margaret  the  Orphan  of 
Barna  with  her  Knight  of  the  Red  Plume,  and  to 
tell  the  blithe  rejoicings  and  brave  pageants  on 
their  marriage-day.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  they 
were  married  by  the  old  monk,  and  that  they  loved 
well  and  lived  happily,  as,  I  pray,  O  sweet  reader! 
thou  mayest  live,  till  thou,  findest  blissful  rest  in 
the  common  home  of  all  human  pilgrims. 


The  Fair  Maid  of  Killarney. 

A  TALE  OF  ROSS  CASTLE. 


Among  the  almost  innumerable  objects  of  in¬ 
terest  that  come  under  the  observation  of  the 
tourist  during  his  sojourn  in  Killarney  and  its  neigh¬ 
borhood,  there  is  scarcely.one  whose  examination  will 
alford  more  pleasure  than  Ross  Castle.  Too  many 
travellers  there  are,  however,  who  either  do  not  visit 
it  at  all,  or,  when  they  do  so,  pass  it  by  with  a  glance, 
thoughtless  and  cursory.  One,  for  instance,  half-be¬ 
wildered  by  the  countless  beauties  of  our  Irish  fairy¬ 
land,  will  hurry  away  with  a  confused  remembrance 
floating  in  his  brain,  of  wild  pass,  silvery  lake,  rain¬ 
bow-tinted  island,  and  sunlit,  sky-piercing  mountain, 
another,  equally  alive  to  the  natural  beauties  of  that 
glorious  scenery,  but  with  an  eye  also  for  objects  of 
legendary,  antiquarian,  and  historical  interest,  will 
return  to  his  home,  the  object  of  his  tour  only  half- 
accomplished,  for  want  of  proper  and  reliable  infoi- 
mation  regarding  the  various  points  of  attraction  he 

79 


80 


THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  KILLARNEY. 


has  met  with  during  his  visit.  By  far  the  greater 
number,  however,  with  garrulous  and  flimsy  guide¬ 
book  in  hand,  flit  about  from  Mucruss  to  the  Devil’s 
Punch  Bowl,  from  the  Gap  of  Dunloe  to  the  Castle 
of  Ross,  from  island  to  island,  and  from  mountain 
peak  to  lowland  shore ;  and  carry  away  with  them 
on  their  departure  an  incongruous  medley  of  badly- 
told  historical  facts,  hackneyed  legends,  and  newly- 
invented  nonsensical  stories,  all  of  which,  they,  of 
course,  scatter  liberally  among  their  friends,  both 
here  and  at  the  other  side  of  the  water,  to  the  great  • 
discredit  of  that  famed  i*egion  which  an  erratic  old 
gentleman  of  our  acquaintance  calls  in  his  rapture, 
the  “  tourist’s  paradise.”  With  the  purpose  of  sup¬ 
plying  to  the  tourist  a  few  items  of  information  of  a 
less  hackneyed  character,  Ave  give,  as  a  preliminary 
to  our  story,  a  short  account  of  the  spot  in  which  its 
principal  incidents  were  enacted. 

Ross  Castle  consisted  of  a  strong  keejj  and  other 
stout  buildings,  both  of  a  domestic  and  military 
nature,  surrounded  by  the  usual  baAvn  wall,  with  its 
breastworks  and  circular  flanking  towers  at  the 
corners.  It  is  situated  upon  a  peninsula  on  the 
eastern  shore  of  the  lower  lake,  and  commands  a 
view  on  every  side  of  the  wildest  beauty  and  pub- 
liniity.  Right  before  it,  to  the  west,  the  lofty  Reeks 
of  Magillacuddy  throw  up  their  savage  summits  into 
the  ever-varying  sky;  while  to  the  south  and  east 
the  horizon  is  broken  by  the  steep,  pyramidal  crests 


THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  KILL  ARNE  Y. 


81 


of  the  Paps,  and  the  Mangerton  range  of  moun¬ 
tains.  To  the  north,  a  number  of  abrupt  and  irreg¬ 
ular  summits  shut  in  the  view;  and  the  traveller 
who  looks  from  the  time-worn  battlements  of  the 
ancient  stronghold  will  see  around  him  a  panorama 
of  crag  and  wood,  curving  shore,  fairy  island,  and 
glittering  wave,  far  surpassing  even  the  pictures  of 
his  wildest  dreams  of  splendor  and  beauty. 

The  ross,  or  peninsula,  on  which  the  castle  is 
built,  was  converted,  if  we  may  so  speak,  into  an 
island,  by  means  of  a  deep  channel  cut  through  the 
marshy  neck  by  which  it  joined  the  mainland. 
This  channel,  or  ditch,  was  filled  by  the  waters  of 
the  lake,  and  formed  the  chief  defence  of  the  castle 
on  the  land  side.  It  was  crossed  by  a  drawbridge, 
no  traces  of  which  now  exist.  Regarding  the  pre¬ 
cise  date  of  the  foundation  of  the  castle,  or  the 
name  of  its  founder,  history  is  silent.  It  was  prob¬ 
ably  built  by  some  warlike  chief  of  the  O’Donoghoe 
sept,  in  the  midst  of  whose  immense  territory  it 
stands.  From  the  style  of  its  masonry,  and  other 
characteristics,  it  does  not  seem  older  than  the  latter 
part  of  the  fourteenth  century.  About  that  date, 
and  in  several  parts  of  Ireland  before  it,  the  Irish 
chieftains  began  to  adopt  some  of  the  manners  of 
their  powerful  Norman  neighbors;  and  upon  the  site 
of  their  wooden  cahirs,  or  fortresses,  built  strong 
castles  of  stone,  in  which  they  stood  many  a  gallant 
siege;  and  from  which,  at  the  head  of  tli'eir  follow¬ 
ers,  they  often  rode  forth  in  wild  array,  to  protect 


82 


THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  KILL  ARNE  7. 


their  borders  against  those  mail-clad  invaders  whose 
trade  was  war,  and  whose  perpetual  law  was  the 
strong  hand,  and  the  might  of  battle-axe  and 
sword. 

During  the  vengeful  wars  that  then  raged  through¬ 
out  the  length  and  breadth  of  Ireland,  Ross  Castle 
frequently  changed  owners.  From  the  O’Donoghoe 
More,  by  one  of  whose  ancestors  it  seems  to  have 
been  erected,  it  passed  into  the  hands  of  Mac  Carthy 
More,  by  whom  it  was  transferred,  in  the  year  1588, 
to  Sir  Valentine  Browne,  ancestor  of  the  present 
House  of  Kenmare.  Passing  over  its  various  re¬ 
verses  during  the  latter  Desmond  wars,  we  will  pro¬ 
ceed  at  once  to  the  most  remarkable  period  of  its 
history;  namely,  its  surrender  to  the  parliamenta¬ 
rian  forces  under  Lieut-Gen.  Edmond  Ludlow,  in 
the  year  1652. 

After  the  dismemberment  of  the  Confederation 
of  Kilkenny,  several  of  the  generals  who  had  fought 
under  its  banners  still  held  out  stoutly  for  their 
native  land,  against  the  Puritans.  Among  these 
was  Donogh  Mac  Carthy,  Lord  of  Muskerry,  chief 
commander,  in  Munster,  of  the  Catholic  forces. 
After  his  defeat  at  the  battle  of  Knockniclashy,  in 
the  county  of  Cork,  he  led  fifteen  hundred  men  across 
t  lie  mountains,  and  threw  himself  into  Ross  Castle, 
the  last  stronghold  of  importance  at  that  time  in 
possession  of  the  Irish.  Thither  he  was  followed 
by  Gen.  Rudlow,  into  whose  possession  the  castle 
fell  after  a  short  siege.  The  manner  in  which  the 


THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  KILL  ARNE  Y. 


83 


castle  yielded  to  the  pavliamentarian  general  will 
be  best  understood  by  a  perusal  of  our  story. 

At  the  commencement  of  the  great  insurrection 
of  1641,  Ross  Castle  and  the  surrounding  territory 
belonged  to  Sir  Valentine  Browne.  Sir  Valentine 

O 

was  at  that  time  a  minor,  under  the  guardianship  of 
his  uncle,  who  was  afterwards  slain  in  one  of  the 
battles  fought  during  that  destructive  and  protracted 
war.*  The  warden  of  the  castle,  towards  the  termi¬ 
nation  of  the  war,  in  1652,  was  a  distant  relation  of 
Sir  Valentine,  named  Richard  Browne,  a  captain  in 
the  confederate  army.  Capt.  Richard  Browne  had 
an  only  child,  a  daughter,  named  Mabel,  who  lived 
with  him  in  the  castle.  Mabel,  at  the  time,  was  just 
veririn"  into  womanhood,  and  was  a  lovely  girl ;  so 
beautiful,  indeed,  that  she  was  called  by  the  surround¬ 
ing  people,  of  every  degree,  “The  Fair  Maid  ol  Kil- 
larney.”  It  will  not  be  at  all  wondered  at,  therefore, 
that  the  young  officers  who  commanded  under  her 
father  in  the  garrison  should  have  been  smitten  by 
her  beauty.  Foremost  among  those  who  paid  her 
homage  was  a  young  man  named  Raymond  Villiers, 
a  lieutenant  of  musketeers,  and  a  descendant  of  a 
stout  English  settler  who  had  come  into  that  coun¬ 
try  about  a  century  before. 

Raymond  Villiers  was  the  possessor  of  a  small 
but  good  estate,  lying  upon  the  shore  of  the  Main, 
a  river  that  empties  its  waters  into  Dingle  Bay. 
The  veteran  warden  of  the  castle  was  well  ac- 


84 


THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  KILLARNEY. 


quaintecl  with  the  circumstances  of  the  young  lieu¬ 
tenant  of*  musketeers,  and  looked  favorably  upon 
his  attentions  to  Mabel ;  but  the  latter  persisted  in 
receiving  the  homage  of  her  suitor  with  no  small 
amount  of  coldness,  the  reason  of  which  will  be 
understood  presently.  Thus  matters  stood  between 
the  young  pair,  until  the  day  of  the  battle  of  Knock- 
niclashy,  in  which,  as  was  seen  above,  the  forces  of 
Lord  Muskerry  were  defeated  by  the  troops  of  the 
l^arliament,  under  Ludlow. 

The  sun  of  that  disastrous  day  was  setting  beyond 
the  wild  mountains  of  Dingle,  as  Capt.  Browne 
was  standing  upon  the  battlements  of  the  castle, 
taking  a  survey  of  the  warders  beneath  as  they 
walked  to  and  fro,  in  their  monotonous  avocation, 
behind  the  breastworks  of  the  massive  bawn  wall 
beneatli.  Lake  and  island  and  giant  hill  lay  bathed 
in  a  flood  of  golden  glory  around  him.  The  blue 
smoke  from  the  tall  chimneys  of  the  castle  curled 
up  in  airy  columns  through  the  calm  summer  sky, 
and  the  slumbering  quietness  of  the  whole  scene 
seemed  to  exert  its  soothing  influence  upon  the  mind 
of  the  gray-haired  warden  ;  for,  after  taking  a  quick 
survey  of  the  sentinels  below,  he  sat  himself  upon  a 
small  brass  falconet,  or  cannon,  that  commanded 
the  drawbridge,  and  began  musing  silently  for  some 
moments. 

“By  my  faith,”  said  he  at  last,  “but  I  wish  this 
war  was  ended,  and  my  daughter  married  to  young 
Raymond  Villiers  !  I  could  then,  sit  down  quietly 


THE  FAIR  MAW  OF  KILLARNEY. 


85 


for  the  remainder  of  my  days,  and  turn  ray  thoughts 
to  another  world,  which,  alas!  I  have  little  time  to 
think  of  ill  this  time  of  foraying  and  slaying. 
Rory,”  continued  he  aloud  to  a  wiry  little  sunhui  nt 
boy  who  usually  attended  him  on  his  rounds,  “go 
and  tell  Mistress  Mabel  that  I  am  here,  and  that  I 
want  to  speak  to  her  for  a  few  moments.” 

Rory  disappeared  in  an  instant  down  the  winding 
stairway ;  and,  after  a  little  time,  Mabel  Browne 
made  her  appearance  on  the  flat  space  on  the  sum¬ 
mit  of  the  castle,  and  sat  down  beside  lier  fattier. 

“Mabel,”  said  the  latter,  looking  afiectioiiately 
upon  his  daughter,  “  I  have  been  thinking  that  this 
wooing  of  Raymond  Villiers  has  gone  far  enough, 
and  that  you  ought  to  give  him  a  favorable  answer.” 

Now  it  must  be  premised  that  Mabel,  only  child 
as  she  was,  took  some  liberties  on  that  account,  and 
usually  contrived  to  have  her  own  way  in  the  end, 
no  matter  how  her  father  threatened  and  stormed. 
Whenever  she  saw  his  brows  darkening,  she  usually 
succeeded,  by  dint  of  alternate  crying  and  coaxing, 
in  brightening  them  again ;  but,  on  the  jiresent  oc¬ 
casion,  she  knew,  by  the  flxed  look  of  determination 
in  her  father’s  face,  that  he  was  at  last  bent  on 
carrying  his  point. 

“  I  cannot  tell,  father,”  she  answered,  “  why  it  is 
that  you  are  so  eager  to  get  rid  of  me  in  these 
troublous  times.  As  for  myself,  I  would  rather  stay 
with  you  to  the  end  of  my  days ;  and  you  know, 
also,  very  well,  that  you  cannot  do  without  me. 


86 


THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  KILL  ARNE  T. 


Think,”  continued  she,  with  a  smile  of  mingled 
reproach  and  fondness  upon  her  lovely  face,  “  only 
think  of  the  time,  two  years  ago,  when  you  sent  me 
to  spend  the  summer  with  my  aunt  in  Tralee,  how 
you  fretted  and  neglected  yourself  during  my 
absence,  and  how,  at  last,  you  had  to  send  for  me, 
and  could  not  bear  me  away  ever  since.” 

“No  matter,”  answered  her  father.  “Times  are 
changing  now,  Mabel.  I  am  growing  old  and 
infirm,  and  there  is  no  knowing  the  day  that  I  may 
fall  in  battle,  or  die  of  this  cough  that  is  now  con¬ 
tinually  troubling  me ;  ”  and  he  pointed  to  his  stout 
chest,  which,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  showed  but 
small  signs  of  the  ravages  of  the  complaint  to  which 
he  alluded.  “  If  it  should  come  to  that,”  continued 
he,  “  whom  will  you  have  to  protect  you  during  the 
troubles  ?  ”  And  he  looked  into  his  daughter’s  face 
knowingly,  as  if  he  defied  her  to  get  over  the  stum¬ 
bling-block  he  had  pro|)ounded. 

“  Oh !  as  for  that,  father,”  answered  Mabel,  “  I 
trust  in  God  there  is  but  little  fear  of  it,  seeing  that 
you  are  still  the  strongest  man  in  the  garrison.  Re¬ 
member  that  I  saw  you  myself  last  week,  leaping 
your  horse  over  the  Wolfs  Hollow,  a  feat  that  does 
not  show  very  much  weakness  or  infirmity;”  and 
she  gave  the  gratified  old  soldier  another  of  her  fond, 
roguish  smiles. 

“  I  tell  you,  Mabel,”  rejoined  he,  trying  to  look 
sour  in  spite  of  himself,  “no  matter  how  afiTairs  go 
with  me,  it  has  come  to  this,  that  I  have  set  my 


THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  KILL  ARNE  Y. 


87 


heart  upon  your  marrying  Raymond  Villiers ;  and 
marry  him  you  shall,  for  he  is  in  every  way  worthy 
of  you.” 

“I  am  sure  he  is,”  returned  Mabel,  “  and  deserving 
of  a  far  better  wife  than  I  would  make  him ;  but  ” — 

“  But  what  ?  ”  interrupted  her  father.  “  That’s 
the  way  you  are  always  putting  me  olF.  I  hope, 
Mabel,”  he  continued  in  a  yet  more  energetic  tone, 
“  that  you  are  not  still  thinking  of  that  wild  spend¬ 
thrift,  Donogh  of  Glenmpurne.” 

A  bright  Jjlush  overspread  the  features  of  Mabel 
Browne  at  the  sound  of  that  name.  She  looked 
upon  her  father  reproachfully,  her  eyes  all  the  while 
gradually  filling  with  tears. 

“  If  I  am,  father,”  she  said  mournfully,  “  I  cannot 
help  it  now  and  then.  You  know  there  was  once  a 
time  when  you  did  not  forbid  me  to  do  so.  How¬ 
ever,”  she  continued  with-  a  sigh,  “I  will  try  to  for¬ 
get  him  since  you  wish  it ;  but  I  cannot,  I  cannot 
give  my  heart  to  Raymond  Villers,  because”  — 

“  Because  he  is  not  worthy  of  it,  I  suppose 
you  will  say,”  said  her  father  somewhat  bitterly. 
“But  know,  Mabel,  that  Donogh  Mac  Carthy  of 
Glenmourne  is  now  landless,  and  has  nought  save 
his  sword  to  depend  on ;  and,  by  our  lady,  but 
that’s  but  a  weak  prop  to  depend  on  in  these  dan¬ 
gerous  times !  ” 

“  1  know  it,”  returned  Mabel,  her  eyes  brighten¬ 
ing  as  she  thought  of  her  absent  lover.  “  I  know 
that  he  was  robbed  of  his  estate  by  Cromwell ;  but 
that  is  no  reason  why  I  should  play  him  false.” 


88 


THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  KILLARNET.  ' 


“I  knew  that  \Yas  the  answer  you  would  make,” 
said  her  father;  “but,  notwithstanding,  you  must 
wed,  and  that  soon,  with  Raymond  Villiers.  Ha ! 
what  is  that  I  see?  Look,  Mabel,  look!  I  trust 
in  God,  whoever  it  is,  that  he  brings  us  good  news !  ” 
And  he  pointed  towards  a  slope  at  the  eastern  side 
of  the  castle,  down  which  a  horseman  Avas  ridinsf 
towards  them  in  furious  haste. 

“There  must  have  been  a  battle  foimht!”  ex- 

O 

claimed  Mabel,  looking  eagerly  upon  the  approach¬ 
ing  courier,  as  he  still  rode  on,  his  helmet  and  trap¬ 
pings  glittering  in  the  red  beams  of  the  setting  sun. 
“Seel  he  is  facing  directly  for  the  drawbridge. 
My  God !  it  is  he,  it  is  he !  ”  And  again  the  red 
blood  mounted  to  her  cheeks,  and  the  tears  sparkled 
in  her  eyes,  as  she  became  conscious  of  exhibiting 
such  unusual  emotion  before  her  father. 

“Who  is  it?”  asked  the  latter  eagerly.  “Your 
eyes  are  sharper  than  mine,  Mabel;  and  I  do  not 
know  him  yet.” 

“  It  is  Donogh  of  Glenmourne !  ”  exclaimed  Ma¬ 
bel,  scarcely  able  to  restrain  herself  from  darting 
down  the  stair  to  welcome  the  coming  of  the 
young  horseman. 

“I  know  him  now,”  said  her  father.  “Look  at 
his  horse  all  covered  with  foam  and  mire!  Look  at 
his  plume  shorn  off,  and  the  sad  plight  he  is  in! 
He  is  the  bearer  of  bad  news.”  And  with  that  the 
old  veteran  left  his  seat  upon  the  cannon,  and 
hurried  down  the  stair,  followed  by  his  daughter. 


THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  KILLARNEY. 


89 


With  a  hasty  step,  ho  strode  to  the  drawbridge, 
which,  by  his  orders,  was  immediately  let  down  to 
give  ingress  to  Donogh  of  Glenmourne,  who,  in  a  few 
moments  afterwards,  rode  inwards ,  and  dismounted 
in  the  courtyard;  where  he  was  soon  surrounded  by 
an  eager  throng,  all  burning  to  hear  the  news  with 
which  he  was  sent  thither.  The  tidings  he  brought 
were  sorrowful  enough ;  and  shouts  of  anger,  and 
execrations  deep  and  fierce,  were  muttered  by  his 
hearers,  as  he  told  them,  how,  that  morning.  Lord 
Muskerry  was  vanquished  in  the  battle  of  Knock- 
niclashy.  After  giving  this  disagreeable  bit  of  in¬ 
formation  with  a  soldier’s  brevity,  he  followed  the 
warden  of  the  castle  to  a  private  I’oom  in  order  to 
deliver  some  further  instructions  with  which  he  had 
been  charged  by  his  general  after  the  battle. 

Donogh  of  Glenmourne  was  as  good  a  specimen 
of  the  young  Irish  officer  of  the  time  as  could  well 
be  seen.  He  was  about  twenty-five  years  of  age, 
strikingly  handsome,  tall  of  stature,  and  had  that 
bold,  frank  bearing  that  so  well  became  his  degree, 
which  was  that  of  a  captain  of  cavalry.  To  the 
owner  of  a  pair  of  bright  eyes  that  watched  him 
eagerly  from  a  little  window  overhead,  he  now  ap¬ 
peared  doubly  interesting  as  he  walked  forth  once 
more  in  his  battle-soiled  armor,  and  joined  a  little 
knot  of  officers  who  were  conversing  in  the  court¬ 
yard.  For  a  few  moments  only,  Mabel  regarded 
him,  and  then  hastened  down  to  her  father  to  hear 
the  tidings. 


90 


THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  KILLARNEY. 


“I  Mabel,”  said  her  father,  “  that  you  will 
have  but  a  sorry  time  of  it  henceforth.  Lord  Mus- 
kerry  is  now  marching  with  the  remnant  of  his 
forces  across  the  mountains,  and  will  be  here  early 
to-morrow.  He  will,  of  course,  be  folloAved  by 
Gen.  Ludlow :  so  I  think  you  had  better  get  ready 
and  go  to  your  aunt  at  once ;  for  we  are  about  to 
stand  a  siege.” 

“  I  cannot  leave  you,  father,”  said  Mabel ;  “  so  do 
not  send  me  away.  Whatever  happens,  I  would 
rather  stay  with  you ;  and,  besides,  you  know  that  I 
am  safer  here  than  I  should  be  in  Ti’alee.” 

“Perhaps  it  may  be  so,”  returned  her  father; 
“but  we  will  think  it  over.  In  the  mean  time,  I 
must  go  and  give  directions  to  have  the  castle  ready 
for  Lord  Muskerry  and  the  somewhat  large  force  he 
is  bringing  with  him.”  And  he  walked  out,  and 
speedily  called  the  garrison  to  arms.  The  noise  of 
preparation  soon  rang  from  end  to  end  of  the 
huge  fortress.  At  last,  night  settled  down  upon  hill 
and  lake  and  tower;  and  all  became  still,  save  the 
tread  of  the  wary  sentinels  as  they  paced  to  and 
fro  along  the  ramparts. 

About  the  noon  of  the  following  day.  Lord  Mus¬ 
kerry  arrived  with  his  forces  and  a  great  prey  of 
cattle,  which  they  liad  taken  during  their  retreat 
from  tlie  bloody  held  of  Knockniclasliy.  The  ram¬ 
parts  of  Ross  Castle  were  now  crowded  with  men; 
and  all  was  busy  preparation  for  the  expected  siege. 
The  outworks  at  the  land  side  were  strengthened. 


THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  KILLARNEY. 


91 


additional  provisions  were  gathered  hastily  but 
abundantly  in  from  the  surrounding  country,  guns 
were  placed  commanding  every  available  approach ; 
and  at  length  the  castle  seemed  capable  of  holding  - 
out  stoutly  against  the  well-appointed  forces  of  the 
enemy.  Some  of  the  broken  Irish  regiments  were 
also  encamped  in  the  surrounding  woods ;  so  that 
Gen.  Ludlow,  when  he  invested  the  castle  with  an 
army  of  about  six  thousand  men,  had  a  game  to 
play  as  difficult  as  it  was  dangerous.  In  such  a 
state  of  affairs,  the  siege  went  on  slowly,  scarcely 
a  cannon  having  been  fired  on  either  side  for 
several  days  after  the  arrival  of  the  parliamenta¬ 
rian  array.  Outside  the  castle,  however,  continual 
skirmishing  was  going  on  between  the  enemy  and 
the  Irish  troops,  who  occupied  several  advantageous 
positions  amongst  the  woods  and  hills. 

Matters  wei’e  in  that  condition,  when  one  even¬ 
ing  Mabel  stole  up  to  the  battlements  of  the  castle 
in  order  to  obtain  a  view  of  the  hostile  camp.  Plain¬ 
ly  enough  it  lay,  almost  beneath  her,  towards  the 
east ;  the  arnis  of  its  occupants  all  flashing  and  glit¬ 
tering  in  the  sun,  and  the  painted  banners  flaunting 
proudly  in  the  evening  breeze.  As  she  stood  gazing 
with  curious  eye  upon  that  martial  scene,  she  heard 
a  light  step  behind  her,  and,  turning  round,  beheld 
Raymond  Villiers  approaching  from  the  stairway, 
with  a  somewhat  troubled  look  upon  his  dark  and 
handsome  features.  lie  sat  himselt  upon  the  battle¬ 
ment  beside  her,  and  for  some  time  neither  spoke. 


92 


THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  KILLARNEY. 


His  troubled  and  somewhat  diffident  manner  might 
be  easily  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  he  had  then 
and  there  determined  to  try  his  last  chance  of  get¬ 
ting  a  favorable  answer  from  Mabel.  The  single 
warden  who  watched  from  the  summit  of  the  castle 
was  standing  uj^on  a  small  pinnet,  or  tower,  at  the 
opposite  side,  and  could  not  hear  their  conversation, 
which  at  last  Raymond  Villiers  wound  up  his  courage 
to  begin. 

“I  have  sought  you,  Mabel,”  he  said,  “for  many 
reasons.  This  siege  must  soon  be  ended  ;  for  I  am 
sure  the  fortress  cannot  hold  out  against  yonder 
splendid  and  brave  army,  and  then  there  will  be 
many  changes.  You  will  see,  then,  why  I  am  anxious 
to  understand  your  sentiments  towards  me.” 

“I  pray  you,”  returned  Mabel,  with  a  cold  smile, 
“  to  explain  to  me.  Master  Villiers,  why  the  castle 
cannot  hold  out.  Surely,  Lord  Muskerry  is  strong 
enough  to  hold  his  own  here  at  least,  wdiere  he  has 
a  deep  lake,  a  goodly  trench,  and  a  brave  castle 
crowded  with  men  to  back  him.” 

“That  may  be,”  said  Villiers.  “ But  there  seems 
to  be  some  curse  upon  our  cause.  Every  tiling  goes 
badly  with  us;  and  why  should  this  castle  hold  out 
when  stronger  ones  have  fallen  ?” 

“This  is  language  that  ill  befits  a  soldier,”  an¬ 
swered  Mabel,  smiling  contemptuously.  “You,  Mas¬ 
ter  Villiers,  were  wont  to  boast  loudly  enough 
whilst  the  enemy  was  far  off.  JSTow  that  he  is  near 
us,  it  seems  strange  that  you  cannot  keep  your 


THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  KILL  ARNE  Y. 


93 


heart  up  like  a  brave  man  in  the  emergency.  Do 
not  expose  yourself  too  much,  I  pray  you,”  she 
added,  witli  another  smile  of  contempt.  “  Keep  in 
shelter  of  that  battlement  beside  you,  else  yonder 
gun  that  the  enemy  seems  arranging  in  the  battery 
on  the  height  may  pick  you  off  ere  the  siege  is  well 
begun.” 

Nothinof  is  so  maddening  to  a  lover  as  a  word  or 
smile  of  contempt  from  the  woman  he  loves.  The 
temper  of  Raympiid  Villiers  was  hot  and  violent; 
and  Mabel’s  tone  and  look  enraged  him  beyond 
measure,  though  he  strove  to  hide  his  anger. 

“  I  did  not  come  to  discuss  military  tactics,”  he 
said,  with  a  forced  smile.  “I  am  here,  Mabel,  to 
decide  my  fate  with  regard  to  you  ;  and  thus  I  ask 
you,  for  the  last  time,  will  you  become  my  wife 
when  this  siege  is  over?” 

“Nay,”  returned  Mabel,  “  it  would  be  indelicate 
of  me  to  consent  so  hastily,  seeing  that  the  siege,  as 
you  say,  is  to  come  to  so  speedy  a  termination. 
So,”  she  continued  in  the  same  ironical  tone,  “I 
cannot  grant  your  request.” 

“  I  have  dallied  long  enough,”  muttered  Villiers, 
a  frown  in  spite  of  himselt  darkening  his  features. 
“This  is  to  be  my  final  answer,  then,”  added  he, 
turning  to  Mabel :  “  I  am  to  understand,  that  in 
spite  of  my  devotion,  and  in  spite  of  all  your  father’s 
commands,  you  will  not  consent  to  be  my  wife  ?  ” 

“No,”  returned  Mabel, firmly ;  “for  my  father  will 
never  force  me  to  it.” 


94 


THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  KILL  ARNE  Y. 


“  You  will  not,  then  ?  ” 

“No.  And  now,  Raymond  Villiers,  let  us  put  an 
end  to  this  forever.  You  know  I  cannot  be  your 
wife,  and  you  know  also  the  reason  of  it.” 

“Yes,”  exclaimed  Villiers  bitterly,  “I  know  it. 
He  is  here,  and  you  love  him.  But  we  will  see 
to  it,  —  by  the  breath  of  my  body  but  we  will  see  to 
it!”  And  ho  stood  up,  and,  bowing  coldly  to  Mabel, 
took  his  way  down  the  stairway  with  a  black  and 
revengeful  frown  upon  his  swarthy  brows. 

Mabel  Browne,  with  the  sharpness  of  a  woman, 
noticed  the  look,  and  partly  guessed  its  meaning. 
Coupling  it  with  his  demeanor  for  a  long  time 
previous,  from  which  she  judged  that  he  would 
think  little  of  changing  sides  in  the  war,  she  de¬ 
termined,  for  her  own  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  the 
castle  of  which  her  father  was  warden,  to  watch  his 
motions  narrowly  for  the  future.  But  for  several 
days  afterwards,  during  which  the  siege  began  to 
grow  somewhat  hotter,  she  saw  nothing  in  the  con¬ 
duct  of  Raymond  Villiers  to  confii*m  the  secret 
suspicions  she  had  formed  of  his  fidelity  to  the  Irish 
cause. 

A  week  had  now  passed  away.  It  was  midnight. 
Beneath 'the  black  gloom  that  shrouded  lake  and 
castle  and  giant  mountain,  a  tall  figure,  mufiled  in 
a  long  military  cloak,  glided  along  the  rampart 
towards  a  sentinel  who  stood  beside  the  western 
turret,  facing  the  water.  The  sentinel  turned,  and 
demanded  the  watchword  for  the  night.  It  was 


THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  KILLAllNEY. 


95 


given;  and  the  tall  figure  moved  down  to  the 
water’s  edge,  and,  stepping  cautiously  into  one  of 
the  three  small  boats  that  were  moored  beneath  the 
shadow  of  the  tower,  took  the  oars,  and  shoved  it 
silently  out  into  the  lake.  By  and  by  another  muf¬ 
fled  figure,  evading  the  observation  of  the  sentinel 
in  the  darkness,  stole  silently  beneath  the  rampart, 
and,  stepping  into  one  of  the  remaining  boats,  put 
it  off  in  a  similar  manner.  The  first  boat  glided 
noiselessly  across  the  lake,  and,  at  last,  landed  its 
occupant  upon  the  shore,  above  which  was  situated 
the  camp  of  the  parliamentarians.  The  second, 
also,  followed  stealthily  in  its  wake ;  but,  stopping 
some  distance  from  the  shore,  turned  back  again, 
after  a  short  time,  towards  the  castle.  As  it  glided 
in  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  western  tower,  the 
figure  which  it  bore  left  it,  and  soon  gained  the 
courtyard  unobserved.  It  then  glided  up  a  stairway 
of  the  castle  ;  and,  entering  a  little  chamber,  the 
long  cloak  that  muffled  it  was  cast  upon  the  floor, 
and  the  lovely  face  of  the  Fair  Maid  of  Killarney 
was  revealed  in  the  light-  of  a  small  taper  that  was 
burning  upon  a  table  near  the  fireplace. 

“  Whoever  he  is,”  slie  said,  as  she  sat  herself 
beside  the  table,  “  he  is  a  traitor.  But  I  Avill  wait 
and  watch  ;  and  assuredly  I  will  find  him,  or  my 
name  is  not  Mabel  Browne.” 

Meanwhile  let  us  follow  Raymond  Villiers ;  for 
he  it  was  that  had  gone  upon  his  dark  midnight 
mission  across  the  lake.  After  narrowly  escaping 


96 


THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  KILLARNEY. 


being  shot  by  the  advanced  sentinel  of  the  enemy, 
he  contrived  to  make  his  purpose  known,  and  was 
soon  conducted  into  the  presence  of  Gen.  Ludlow. 

“  What  dost  thou  want  ?  ”  said  the  stern  Puritan 
general,  in  a  surly  tone  at  being  awaked  from  his 
first  slumbers.  “  Why  didst  thou  not  come  in  the 
light  of  day  with  thine  errand,  whatever  it  is  ?  ” 
“For  the  best  reason  in  the  world,  general,” 
answered  Villiers.  “  If  any  of  my  own  people  saw 
me,  my  life  would  not  be  worth  a  silver  crown.  I 
come  from  the  fortress  yonder.” 

“Ha!”  exclaimed  Ludlow,  “I  begin  to  under¬ 
stand  thee  now.  Wliat  of  the  castle?  and  hast 
thou  any  method  by  which  we  can  take  it  speed¬ 
ily?” 

“You  will  never  take  it  by  your  present  tactics,” 
answered  Villiers ;  “for  the  garrison  is  well. manned, 
and  they  have  abundance  of  provisions,  besides  the 
natural  strength  of  the  place.  I  am  a  lieutenant  of 
musketeers.  If  I  succeed  in  gaining  you  a  passage 
across  the  drawbridge,  or  point  out  another  method 
by  which  you  can  take  the  castle,  will  you  give  me 
the  same  rank  in  your  army  ?  ” 

“Gladly,  gladly!”  answered  Ludlow,  who  knew 
but  too  well  the  strength  of  the  garrison.  “  And 
now,  in  case  thou  canst  not  betray  the  drawbridge 
to  us,  —  obtain  passage  over  it  for  us,  I  mean,  — 
what  is  thine  other  method?  ” 

“There  is  a  prophecy,  regarding  Ross  Castle,” 
answered  Villiers,  “  which  the  majority  of  those 


THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  KILLARNEY. 


97 


who  now  defend  the  castle  believe  in  with  their 
hearts  and  souls;  and,  when  they  see  this  accom¬ 
plished,  I  will  stake  my  life  they  will  yield  the 
castle  to  you  on  the  easiest  terms.  It  is  this,  —  that 
Ross  Castle  can  never  be  taken  till  the  enemy  sail 
in  a  fleet  of  ships  upon  the  lake.  Can  you  not  • 
accomplish  the  prophecy?” 

“  I  think  so,”  answered  the  Puritan  general,  after 
a  long  pause,  during  which  he  sat  thinking  intently. 
“Ho,  there!”  continued  he  to  the  grim  orderly, 
who  stood  guard  at  the  door  of  his  tent :  “  summon 
hither  Scout-master-general  Jones,  and  say  that  I 
want  to  consult  with  him  on  a  most  important 
matter.” 

In  a  short  time,  the  scout-master-general  made 
his  appearance;  and  there  followed  a  long  consulta¬ 
tion,  at  the  end  of  which  Raymond  Villiers  took  his 
departure,  and  succeeded  in  reaching  his  quarters  in 
Ross  Castle  unobserved.  The  result  of  Ludlow’s 
consultation  was,  that,  in  case  Villiers  failed  in 
otherwise  betraying  the  castle,  Scout-master-gene¬ 
ral  Jones  undertook  to  procure  and  transport  from 
Kinsale  to  Castlemain  Bay,  and  thence  overland  to 
the  parliamentarian  camp,  the  materials,  ready 
made,  of  a  fleet  of  heavy  gunboats,  with  which 
they  could  attack  the  castle  from  the  lake. 

Two  days  passed  away,  during  which  Villiers 
found  that  there  was  but  small  chance  of  betraying 
the  drawbridge  of  the  castle  to  the  enemy.  He 
therefore  finally  resolved  to  leave  the  place,  and  go 

7 


98 


THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  KILLARNET. 


over  as  secretly  as  lie  could  to  the  hostile  camp.  It 
was  thus,  that,  about  midnight,  he  contrived  to  pro¬ 
cure  a  boat  as  before,  and  make  his  way  across  the 
lake.  This  time,  however,  Mabel  Browne,  who  con¬ 
stantly  watched  his  motions,  and  who  now  sat 
concealed  beneath  the  dark  shade  of  the  wall,  knew 
his  features  as  he  glided  past,  and  followed  him,  as 
she  did  the  other  night,  over  the  water.  As  he 
stepped  upon  the  land,  an  unlucky  splash  of  Mabel’s 
oar  caught  his  ear.  He  stood,  and,  peering  outward 
through  the  darkness  that  overhung  the  water, 
caught  sight  of  the  boat  and  the  figure  that  sat 
therein,  which  he,  of  course,  thought  was  that  of  a 
man.  A  fierce  frown  of  vengeance  contracted  his 
dark  brow ;  and,  drawing  a  long  pistol  from  his  belt, 
he  fired  at  the  indistinct  figure.  The  next  moment, 
a  wild  shriek  of  agony  and  terror  rang  over  the 
dark  lake ;  and  Mabel  Browne,  with  her  arm  broken 
between  the  elbow  and  shoulder,  dropped  like  a 
wounded  bird  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  For¬ 
tunately,  a  smart  breeze  was  blowing  at  the  time 
from  the  eastward,  and  floated  the  boat  towards  the 
opposite  shore  of  the  lake,  else  the  poor  wounded 
Maid  of  Ross  would  have  fallen  into  the  ruthless 
hands  of  the  parliamentarian  soldiers. 

The  report  of  the  pistol,  and  the  wild  shriek  of 
Mabel,  were  followed  by  loud  confusion  in  castle  and 
hostile  camp.  Each  side  thought  that  the  pistol- 
shot  was  a  signal  for  an  attack  of  some  kind.  Men 
hurried  to  and  fro  by  rampart  and  trench.  The 


THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  KILLARNEY. 


99 


cannon  on  both  sides  opened  fire  for  a  short  interval  5 
but  at  length  all  settled  down  quietly  again,  and  the 
night  passed  away.  Little  did  they  know  that 
nisht,  in  the  Castle  of  Ross,  of  the  terrible  agony 
their  warden’s  daughter  endured  beside  the  solitary 
shore  of  the  lake,  to  which  the  boat  was  driven  by 
the  breeze. 

The  dawn  was  faintly  tinging  the  eastern  sky,  when 
the  Fair  Maid  of  Ross  awoke  froiv  one  of  the  long 
swoons  into  which  she  had  fallen  since  she  had  re¬ 
ceived  the  treacherous  shot  of  Raymond  Villiers. 
There  was  now  light  enough,  but  she  had  scarcely 
sense  left  to  look  around  her.  tier  arm  was  lying 
helplessly  by  her  side ;  her  dress  and  the  bottom  of 
the  boat  were  all  stained  with  blood;  and,  as  she 
endeavored  to  move  herself  so  as  to  get  a  view  of 
where  she  was,  a  sharp  pang  shot  through  the 
wounded  limb,  and,  with  a  faint  scream  of  anguish, 
she  dropped  back  again  into  her  former  position  in 
the  boat.  Then  the  precipitous,  forest-girded  shore 
above  her  seemed  to  whirl  in  a  weird  and  tenable 
dance  before  her  eyes  ;  and  another  swoon  relieved 
her  for  a  time  from  the  torture  of  her  wound. 

When  she  next  awoke  to  consciousness,  it  was 
with  a  cooling  and  somewhat  pleasant  sensation. 
She  opened  her  eyes;  and  the  first  object  they  fell 
upon  was  the  welcome  and  pitying  face  of  Donogh 
of  Glenmourne.  He  was  standing  over  her  in  the 
little  boat,  washing  the  blood  from  her  neck  and 
arm,  and  sprinkling  the  cool  water  gently  over  her 


100 


THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  KILLARNEY. 


face.  All  was  soon  explained.  Donogh,  who  com¬ 
manded  a  party  of  horse  amid  the  woods,  was  re¬ 
turning  from  a  reconnoitring  excursion  by  the  shore, 
and  thus  found  her  whom  he  little  expected  to  see 
in  such  a  woful  state  that  breezeless  summer  morn- 
ins:.  When  she  told  him,  as  well  as  her  weakness 
would  permit  her,  of  the  treachery  of  Raymond 
Villiers,  and  how  it  was  from  his  murderous  shot 
she  had  received  her  wound,  Donogh  swore  a  stern 
oath,  that,  ere  many  days  should  elapse,  he  would 
avenge  the  deed  surely  and  suddenly  upon  the  head 
of  his  perjured  rival.  Before  another  hour  was 
over,  Mabel  Browne,  to  the  surprise  and  consterna¬ 
tion  of  her  stout  old  father,  was  lying  in  her  little 
chamber  in  Ross  Castle,  awaiting  the  coming  of 
the  surgeon  who  attended  Lord  Muskerry’s  army. 
IJnder  the  care  of  that,  scientific  worthy,  her  frac¬ 
tured  arm  was  bound  up ;  and,  in  a  few  days,  the 
fever  that  followed  her  mishap  passed  away,  and  she 
was  pronounced  out  of  danger. 

Meanwhile  the  siege  went  on.  The  parliamenta¬ 
rian  general  pushed  his  approaches  nearer  and  nearer 
to  the  castle ;  and  the  cannon  and  small  arms  on 
both  sides  rattled  away  most  industriously  every 
day  from  morning  until  night.  About  ten  or  a 
dozen  days  after  the  .occurrence  of  tlie  foregoing 
events,  two  horsemen  might  have  been  seen  riding 
ill  wild  haste  over  the  mountains,  and  approaching 
the  north-western  shore  of  the  lake.  It  was  Donogh 
of  Glenmourne  and  one  of  the  dragoons  belonging 


THE  FAIR  MAID  OP  KILLARNEY. 


101 


to  his  troop.  Leaving  his  horse  to  the  care  of  liis 
orderly,  Donogh  descended  into  a  secret  nook  by 
the  water’s  side,  and  was  soon  rowing  a  little  boat 
he  had  taken  therefrom,  across  the  lake  to  the  Castle 
of  Ross.  The  news  he  brought  was,  that  Scout¬ 
master-general  Jones,  with  a  skilful  engineer  named 
Chudleigh,  had  just  landed  in  Castlemain  Bay  witli 
a  vast  quantity  of  timber  ready  hewn  for  large  boats, 
and  was  now  on  his  way  across  tlie  country  to  the 
camp,  escorted  by  a  strong  convoy  of  the  parlia¬ 
mentarians,  horse  and  foot.  After  giving  this  news, 
he  again  crossed  the  lake,  and  soon  joined  his 
troop,  with  which  he  hovered  upon  the  track  of 
the  approaching  convoy.  As  the  latter  passed 
through  a  narrow  defile,  he  fell  upon  it,  sword  in 
hand,  with  his  men,  and  had  a  sharp  skirmish.  He 
was,  however,  finally  I'epulsed,  but  not  till  he  had 
the  satisfaction  of  knocking  Raymond  Villiers  on 
the  head  with  his  own  hand,  and  thus  endinof  the 
new  career  that  gentleman  of  an  easy  conscience 
intended  running  under  favor  of  the  parliament. 

The  convoy  arrived  safely  at  Ludlow’s  camp;  and 
the  boats,  under  the  superintendence  of  Chudleigh 
of  Kinsale,  were  soon  put  together  and  fit  to  bo 
launched.  One  fine  morning,  when  the  garrison  of 
Ross  awoke,* they  were  not  a  little  astonished  to  see 
a  fleet  of  ships,  or,  in  other  words,  large  gunboats, 
floating  upon  the  lake,  with  cannon  ready  pointed 
at  their  bows,  and  colors  flying  jauntily  overhead. 
All  cried,  with  one  voice,  that  the  fatal  prophecy 


102 


THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  KILLARNKY. 


was  fulfilled,  and  that  the  castle  could  hold  out  no 
longer.  Lord  Muskerry,  seeing  the  despondent 
spirit  that  pervaded  his  little  array,  demanded  a 
parley  witli  his  enemy.  The  end  of  it  was,  that, 
after  a  long  debate,  a  capitulation  was  drawn  up  ; 
and  Lord  Muskerry  yielded  the  Castle  of  Ross,  on 
very  honorable  terms,  however,  to  the  parliamenta¬ 
rian  general.  Tliis  put  an  end  to  that  terrible  war 
which  had  devastated  the  country  for  so  many 
years. 

Immediately  afterwards,  Donogh  Mac  Carthy  rode 
over  the  mountains  with  a  score  of  his  bold  horse¬ 
men,  and  dispossessed  the  Puritan  undertaker  who 
held  his  House  of  Glenmourne.  The  Puritan,  per¬ 
haps,  seeing  plenty  of  estates,  far  larger  and  richer, 
going  almost  for  nothing  around  him,  prudently 
made  no  noise  about  the  affair;  and  thus  our  young 
captain  of  cavalry  entered  once  more  into  possession 
of  his  home,  in  which  he  and  his  descendants  were 
confirmed  after  the  restoration.  Some  months  after 
the  yielding  of  the  castle,  Donogh  of  Glenmourne 
was  made  doubly  happy  by  his  marriage  with  the 
Fair  Maid  of  Killarney;  and  with  the  light-hearted 
pair,  it  is  said  that  the  stout  old  warden,  Capt. 
Richard  Browne,  lived  afterwards,  for^the  rest  of 
his  days,  a  life  of  jovial  ease  and  contentment. 


An  Eye  for  an  Eye. 

- 4 - 

DO  you  think  she  will  Idve  me  less,  Tibbot  ?  ” 

Well,”  answered  Tibbot,  leaning  back  in  his 
seat  beside  the  bed,  whereon  his  young  cornpanion- 
in-arms,  Walter  de  Berminghame,  lay  pale  and  ill 
from  the  wounds  he  had  got  in  a  recent  touiaiey, 
—  “well,  that  depends  much,  I  think,  on  the  way 
she  has  loved  you  heretofore.  If  Maude  le  Poer  be 
the  girl  you  have  often  pictured  her  to  me,  she  will 
be  true ;  but  then,  if  she  be  like  those  lightdiearted 
dames  we  met  at  the  last  revel  in  Dublin  Castle, 
I  fear  for  you.  Wattle.” 

“  She  is  light-hearted  enough,  truly,”  said  Wattie, 
raising  himself  uneasily,  and  looking  sadly  upon  his 
companion,  with  one  eye  (he  had  lost  the  other  in 
the  tourney)  ;  “  but  then  she  has  always  been  leal 
and  good,  and  will  not  forsake  me  for  this  sad  acci¬ 
dent,  —  if  accident  I  may  call  it ;  for  all  know  that 
it  was  done  falsely  and  treacherously  by  my  antag¬ 
onist.” 

“  It  surely  was,”  answered  his  companion ;  “  for  I 

103 


104 


AN  EYE  EOIi  AN  EYE. 


saw  the  deed  done  myself,  and  can  sijeak  fairly  on 
the  matter.” 

“Yes!”  resumed  the  other  darkly,  felling  back 
upon  his  couch  as  a  twitch  of  pain  shot  across  his 
still  feverish  brow.  “  Ah,  Tibbot !  it  was  an  unman¬ 
ly  blow,  to  strike  me  when  I  was  unhorsed  and 
helpless  on  the  tourney-ground.  But,  by  the  good 
faith  ot  my  body,  John  de  Lacy  shall  pay  dearly  for 
it  when  we  next  come  face  to  face !  ” 

“  That,”  said  Tibbot  Burke,  “  may  occur  soon 
enough,  if  you  are  well  hi  time  to  join  the  march  of 
my  Lord  de  Berminghame  and  his  army  northward. 
The  De  Lacys  have  all  joined  the  standard  of 
Edward  Bruce;  and  there  will  soon  be  a  battle. 
Stir  up  your  heart,  man,  and  get  well  once  more ; 
and,  when  we  stand  side  by  side  in  the  onset,  the 
best  De  Lacy  of  them  that  comes  in  front  of  our 
spears  we  will  make  pay  for  the  unknightly  blow.” 

“I  care  not  to  meet  any  one  but  him,”  resumed 
Wattie.  “From  him  I  have  sworn  to  take  wlnft  he 
has  taken  from  me,  whenever  we  meet,  be  it  in 
peaceful  hall  or  on  field  of  battle.  But  it  is  hard 
for  me  to  get  well  with  this  trouble  on  my  mind 
about  Maude  le  Peer.  I  have  not  seen  her  since 
that  luckless  tourney-day;  but,  when  I  do,  I  fear 
me  that  the  loss  of  this  poor  eye  of  mine  will  make 
a  sad  diflerence  in  her  favors,  And  yet  we  are  be¬ 
trothed,  Tibbot.  Surely,  she  cannot  break  her  vows. 
And  yet,”  continued  he,  with  a  sigh,  “I  have  known 
others  to  break  them  for  a  far  slighter  cause.” 


AN  EYE  FOR  AN  EYE. 


105 


“  Think  not  upon  it,”  said  Tibbot  Burke  cheer¬ 
fully.  “  Why,  man,  if  a  poor  fellow  depended  on 
his  mere  good  looks  now-a-days  for  getting  a  wife, 
he  would  have  but  little  chance  of  matrimony. 
Your  Maude  will  stick  to  you  while  you  have  the 
money,  even  had  you  lost  both  your  eyes.” 

“I  hope  so,”  said  Wattie,  in  a  more  cheerful  tone. 
“  And  now,  Tibbot,  I  will  pluck  up  my  heart ;  and 
who  knows  but  I  may  be  well  enough  to  undertake 
a  journey  in  a  few  days?  An  I  be,  my  first  care 
will  be  ‘  boot  and  saddle,’  and  off  to  Dublin  to  see 
Maude.” 

“  Good  !  ”  answered  Tibbot  Burke :  “  and  I  will  ac- 
comi^any  you ;  for  I  see-no  use  in  loitering  here  any 
longer,  when  the  whole  community  is  up  in  arms  to 
repel  the  Bruce.  We  can  then  go  both  together 
into  the  coming  battle,  where  you  may  meet 
De  Lacy,  and  repay  him  for  the  blow  that  has 
cost  you  so  much.” 

A  week  after,  and  the  two  young  squires  were 
riding  across  the  Pale,  attended  by  a  stout  clump 
of. spears,  and  bound  for  Dublin,  where  the  army  of 
Lord  De  Berminghame  lay,  before  commencing  its 
march  to  the  north  to  meet  Edward  Bruce,  brother 
to  the  renowned  Robert  Bruce,  King  of  Scotland. 
Edward  Bruce  at  this  time,  proclaiming  himself 
King  of  Ireland,  was  supported  by  several  native 
princes,  together  with  many  of  the  most  powerfid 
Anglo-Irish  lords. 

It  was  a  bright  autumn  evening  as  Wattie  de  Ber- 


106 


AN  EYE  FOR  AN  EYE. 


minghame  aud  Tibbot  Burke,  at  the  head  of  their 
spearmen,  approached  the  western  gate  of  Dublin. 
The  two  young  squires  were  what  was  called  broth- 
ers-in-arms ;  that  is,  a  mutual  friendship  was  sworn 
between  them  :  and  each,  by  his  vow,  was  bound  to 
defend  and  aid  the  other  in  all  straits  and  misfor¬ 
tunes,  with  his  worldly  gear,  with  his  sword,  and 
with  his  very  life,  in  cases  of  extremity. 

As  they  rode  onward  by  the  Liffey  shore  towards 
the  ancient  city,  they  beheld  the  whole  sloping 
plain,  from  the  river  to  where  Phibsborough  now 
stands,  covered  with  tents,  amidst  which  many  a 
bright  spear-point  glittered  in  the  rosy  light  of  the 
descending  sun,  and  many  a  gay  banner  fluttered 
that  bore  the  arms  and  cognizances  of  the  stout 
lords  and  barons  of  the  Pale,  who  were  then  gath¬ 
ered  with  their  strongest  muster,  waiting  for  Lord 
de  Bermingharae  to  lead  them  forth  to  battle. 

“Lead  the  men  forward,  and  procure  them  a  place 
to  camp  for  the  night,”  said  Wattie.  “Meanwhile, 
I  will  push  on  for  the  city,  ere  the  gates  are  closed.” 

With  these  words,  he  rode  down  the  busy  streets 
of  the  city,  his  mind  in  a  strange  tumult  at  the 
tliought  of  meeting  so  soon  with  the  lovely  Maude 
le  Poer,  who  was  one  of  the  handsomest  and  richest 
dames  of  the  Pale.  At  length  he  halted  before  a 
huge  stone  mansion;  and  there,  giving  his  horse 
into  the  care  of  his  gilly,  or  attendant,  he  entered 
beneath  the  massive  porch,  and  was  soon  in  the 
presence  of  his  lady-love. 


AN'  EYE  FOR  AN  EYE. 


107 


“How  did  she  greet  you,  Wattie?”  asked 
Tibbot  Burke,  as  his  companion  joined  him  after 
next  morning’s  reveilUe. 

“I’  faith,  agreeably  enough,”  answered  De  Ber- 
minghame :  “  pleasanter  than  I  thought,  notwith¬ 
standing  my  disfigurement.” 

“Tush  !”  said  Tibbot.  “  Call  it  no  disfigurement, 
man.  I  warrant  me  that  your  other  eye  will  be 
sharp  enough  to  pick  out  your  foe  from  the  Bruce’s 
ranks  during  the  battle,  which,  they  have  told  me, 
is  sure  to  take  place.” 

“Doubtless  but  it  will,”  returned  his  companion; 
“  for  I  think,  an  I  were  stricken  blind  altogether,  I 
could  still  pick  him  out  amongst  a  thousand,  for 
two  reasons.” 

“Methought,”  said  Tibbot,  “that  you  had  but 
one  reason  for  encountering  De  Lacy;  namely,  to 
avenge  yourself  for  the  loss  of  your  eye.” 

“  An  eye  for  an  eye  I  surely  will  have,”  answered 
De  Berminghame.  “  But  I  now  have  another  rea¬ 
son  for  trying  a  mortal  tilt  with  De  Lacy ;  and 
that  is  Maude  le  Poor’s  command.” 

“Good!”  said  Tibbot  Burke,  in  high  admiration 
of  the  warlike  parting-word  of  Maude.  “  May 
Heaven  send  me  a  high-spirited  wife  like  that!  But, 
ha!  there  sound  the  clarions,  warning  us  to  pre- 
])are  for  march.  You  will  soon  have  an  opj^ortu- 
nity  of  executing  the  command  of  your  lady-love.” 

In  the  centre  of  the  camp  was  a  large  pavilion, 
in  front  of  which  stood  the  great  standard  of  Lord 


108 


AN  EYE  FOR  AN  EYE 


John  do  Bevminghame,  general  of  the  Anglo-Irish 
army.  Before  this  standard,  the  general,  in  full 
armor,  was  seated  upon  his  horse,  his  principal 
knights  and  barons  around  him,  giving  the  various 
orders  for  the  march.  The  tents  were  soon  struck, 
and  the  followers  of  the  diiferent  leaders  arranged 
in  stern  array  behind  their  various  ensigns.  It  was 
a  splendid  soene.  The  fresh  morning  sun  glittered 
on  numerous  spear-points,  and  flashed  incessantly 
from  polished  corselets  and  plumed  helmet ;  and  the 
early  breeze,  as  it  blew  up  the  plain,  wafted  upon 
its  wings  the  farewell  eheer  of  the  thousands  who 
thronged  the  strong  ramparts  and  battlements  of 
Dublin,  as  the  army,  after  extending  itself  into  one 
long  line,  with  a  last  wild  burst  of  pipes  and  clarions, 
took  its  way  northward  to  the  battle-field,  whence 
many  of  those  who  filled  its  numbers  were  fated 
never  to  return. 

Wattie  Berminghame  and  his  brother-in-arms, 
with  the  spearmen  they  led,  marched  on  with  the 
centre  body,  which  was  commanded  by  the  general 
in  person. 

“  As  for  me,”  said  Tibbot,  “  I  expect  ray  spurs  at 
last;  for  I  am  sure  it  will  be  a  gallant  fight.” 

“And  I  also,”  returned  his  companion.  “  I  will 
either  win  my  spurs,  or  die.” 

It  was  a  calm,  sultry  noon  when  the  two  hostile 
armies  came  in  sight  of  each  other  at  a  place  called 
Faughard,  near  Dundalk.  The  Scots  were  inferior 
to  the  Irish  in  point  of  numbers ;  but  then  they 


AN  EYE  FOR  AN  EYE. 


109 


were  led  by  experienced  and  renowned  generals, 
and  expected  a  complete  victory  in  the  contest, 
which  soon  commenced.  Lord  de  Berminghame, 
who  was  also  a  brave  and  practised  general,  had 
taken  uj)  an  advantageous  position  at  the  foot  of 
Faughard  Hill;  and,  when  the  first  line  of  the  Scots 
rushed  obliquely  upward  to  attack  him,  his  heavy¬ 
armed  knights  and  spearmen  drove  them  back  with 
considerable  loss  into  the  hollows.  By  a  simulta¬ 
neous  movement  on  the  part  of  the  two  leaders, 
both  the  armies,  wings  aiid  centres,  at  last  came 
together  with  a  terrible  shock,  and  mingled  in  the 
confusion  of  a  general  battle. 

As  young  De  Berminghame  and  his  friend  passed 
out  to  the  front  in  order  to  seek  some  opportunity 
for  distinguishing  themselves,  tliey  beheld  an  Anglo- 
Irish  knight  named  John  de  Maupas,  several  spear- 
lengths  before  them,  riding  in  full  tilt  against 
Edward  Bruce,  who,  according  to  his  wont,  fought 
in  the  van  of  his  army.  Bruce  and  some  of  his 
knights  were  at  the  moment  engaged  in  a  hand-to- 
hand  encounter  with  the  Irish  general  and  a  few 
of  his  principal  leaders,  when  De  Maupas,  coming 
up,  struck  his  spear  through  the  neck  of  the  Scot¬ 
tish  prince,  and  bore  him  to  the  ground,  where  he 
was  trampled  to  death  by  the  raging  horses.  Alan, 
Lord  Steward,  who  was  by  the  side  of  the  Bruce, 
whirled  round  his  huge  two-handed  sword,  and, 
with  one  blow,  slew  De  Maupas,  who-  fell  over  the 
body  of  him  he  had  so  lately  overthrown. 


110 


AN  EYE  FOR  AN  EYE. 


“Look,  look!”  exclaimed  Wattie  Berminghame 
eagerly,  as  the  combatants  now  swayed  to  and  fro, 
and  grappled  with  one  another,  man  to  man.  “  See, 
Tibbot!  There  goes  the  De  Lacy’s  banner  beneath 
in  yon  boggy  hollow.  Follow  me;  for  I  must  find 
him  1  ”  And  with  that  he  spurred  downward,  and 
was  just  in  time,  with  his  friend,  to  join  in  an  attack 
which  the  Anglo-Irish  were  making  on  foot,  upon  the 
left  wing  of  the  Scots  in  the  swampy  hollow.  And 
now  his  heart  bounded  with  a  fierce  delight,  as,  soon 
after  dismounting,  he  was  brought  in  the  rushing 
attack  almost  face  to  face  with  his  hated  foe,  young 
De  Lacy,  kinsman  to  tlie  earl  of  that  name,  who 
was  that  day  fighting  on  the  part  of  Edward  Bruce. 
About  three  paces  in  front  of  him  stood  Tibbot 
Burke,  engaged  in  a  deadly  struggle  with  a  gigan¬ 
tic  Scottish  knight,  who  seemed  to  be  the  comrade 
of  young  De  Lacy.  Poor  Tibbot  went  down  with 
a  loud  clang,  mortally  wounded  before  the  Scotsman, 
who,  in  turn,  was  brought  to  his  knee,  and  slain  by 
the  heavy  sword  of  De  Berminghame,  as  the  latter 
bestrode  the  body  of  his  brother-in-arms. 

“Yield  thee,  thou  blind  dog!”  shouted  young 
De  Lacy  tauntingly,  as  Wattie  now  turned  to  him. 

The  answer  was  a  heavy  blow  upon  the  shoulder, 
and  then  a  thrust  in  the  eye  from  De  Berming- 
hame’s  long  sword.  The  weapon  went  right  through 
the  brain  of  De  Lacy,  who  fell  dead  almost  without 
a  groan. 

“  An  eye  for  an  eye  !  ”  shouted  De  Berminghame  ; 


jjsr  EYE  FOR  AN  EYE. 


Ill 


“and  now  God  and  ray  lady-love  assist  me  in  earn¬ 


ing  ray  spurs !  ” 


He  dashed  quickly  into  the  thickest  of  the  enemy, 
and  performed  such  deeds  of  valor,  that,  ere  night, 
when  the  Scots  were  completdy  routed,  he  was 
knighted  by  his  kinsman.  Lord  de  Berrainghame,  in 
the  presence  of  the  assembled  leaders  of  the  array, 
amongst  whom  was  the  father  of  Maude  le  Poer. 
To  the  latter  he  was  married  some  time  after;  and 
the  only  regret  he  felt  on  the  bridal-day  was,  that 
his  faithful  brother-in-arms,  the  gallant  but  luckless 
Tibbot  Burke,  was  not  alive  to  be  a  witness  of  his 
happiness. 


The  Rose  of  Drimnagh. 


HATEVER  side  we  turn  to  around  the  city 


T  y  of  Dublin,  we  are  sure  to  meet  mementoes 
that  carry  our  thoughts  back  to  those  tui’bulent  days 
when  lance  and  sword  usually  settled  questions 
which  are  now  adjudicated  without  disturbance, 
save  an  occasional  battle  of  tongues,  in  our  peaceful 
courts  of  law.  .  Many  of  those  ancient  fortresses, 
which,  like  a  crescent  chain  of  watchful  sentinels, 
towered  beyond  the  city  for  the  protection  of  the 
Pale,  still  remain,  and  raise  their  hoary  heads  over 
valley  and  river  shore,  adown  which,  in  bright  array, 
plumed  nobles,  and  steel-clad  knights,  and  men-at- 
arms  rode  gallantly  forth  to  battle,  where  the 
Aveary  creaght  lowed,  after  the  foray  in  which  they 
had  been  driven  from  some  far-off  fastness  of  Imayle, 
Leix,  or  Ossory ;  and  where  the  minstrel,  half-Irish 
and  half-Norman,  once  twanged  his  gittern  as  he 
went  from  castle  to  castle,  relating  in  rousing  and 
voluble  stanzas  the  deeds  of  the  knights  of  St. 


112 


I 


THE  ROSE  OF  DRIMNAcm. 


113 


George.*  Among  the  most  remarkable  and  inter¬ 
esting  of  these  ancient  structures  is  the  Castle  of 
Drimnagh,  the  subject  of  many  a  legendary  tale. 
Could  the  bearded  old  warriors  who  once  thronged 
its  halls  awake,  they  would  witness  many  a  won¬ 
derful  change  since  the  half-forgotten  days  when 
they  lived  and  loved,  revelled  and  fought,  conquered 
or  sustained  defeat.  Where  the  Asia,  or  mounted 
courier,  once  spurred  forth  upon  his  hasty  errand, 
the  lightning  of  heaven  now  speeds  by  telegraphic 
wires  to  the  farthest  corners  of  the  land ;  through 
the  craggy  passes,  and  along  the  level  plains,  marked 
some  centuries  ago  with  scarcely  a  bridle-path,  the 
mighty  steam-horse  thunders  over  its  iron  track  with 
its  ponderous  load ;  and,  instead  of  the  small  city 
which  lay  cooped  up  within  its  battlemented  walls 
around  the  castle,  a  glittering  panorama  of  streets 
and  squares,  docks,  store-houses,  towers,  and  splen¬ 
did  domes,  now  spreads  outward  to  the  capacious 
bay,  where,  in  place  of  the  crazy  fleets  of  diminutive 
war-galleys  and  merchant-vessels,  with  their  fantas¬ 
tic  prows  and  carved  mast-heads,  the  huge  hull  of 
the  steam-propelled  ship  now  rides  at  anchor  beside 
the  populous  quays,  or  ploughs  the  blue  waves  be¬ 
yond  the  hoary  headlands  of  old  Ben  Iledar,  like  a 
miniature  volcano,  with  its  attendant  cloud-volumes 
on  the  far  horizon  line. 

*  This  band  of  knights  was  instituted  in  the  year  1475,  for  the  pro¬ 
tection  of  the  English  Pale.  A  troublesome  life  they  must  have  led 
in  those  days ;  for  there  never  passed  a  season  over  their  heads  that 
they  did  not  cross  swords  with  the  neighboring  Irish  clans. 


114 


'FHE  ROSE  OF  DRIMNAGH. 


Retaining  still  some  of  its  ancient  appurtenances, 
such  as  its  moat,  curtain-walls,  &c.,  the  Castle  of 
Drimnagh  presents  one  of  the  best  specimens  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Dublin  of  the  ancient  feudal 
stronghold.  It  stands  beside  the  way  leading  from 
Crumlin  to  the  village  of  Clondalkin,  and  within  a 
few  short  miles  of  the  city.  According  to  the  most 
authentic  accounts,  it  was  founded  in  the  time  of 
King  John,  by  a  knight  named  De  Bernival,  who 
came  to  Ireland  in  the  train  of  that  prince,  and 
received  from  him  a  grant  of  the  surrounding  lands. 
From  this  knight,  the  different  families  of  Barnwell 
in  Ireland  claim  their  descent.  His  death  occurred 
about  the  year  1221 ;  and  his  descendants  held  pos¬ 
session  of  Drimnagh  and  Terenure  till  the  time  of 
James  the  First,  when  their  possessions,  after  a  te¬ 
dious  lawsuit,  fell  to  Sir  Adam  Loftus.  During  the 
great  insurrection  of  1641,  it  was  garrisoned  for  the 
king  by  the  Duke  of  Ormond,  and  had  the  rare  for¬ 
tune  of  escaping  the  destruction  that  followed,  after 
the  arrival  on  these  shores  of  Cromwell  and  his  stern 
legions.  It  is  still  inhabited,  and  in  good  preserva¬ 
tion,  and  will  well  repay  the  tourist  who  leaves  the 
dust  and  toil  and  din  of  the  city,  and  saunters  out 
along  the  quiet  country-roads,  to  pay  it  a  visit. 
Should  he  linger  there,  and  hold  converse  with  the 
surrounding  peasantry,  he  will  hear  many  a  story 
and  romantic  legend  of  days  gone  by,  the  particu¬ 
lars  of  which  will  prove  no  unpleasing  accession  to 
his  note-book.  One  of  these  we  will  now  proceed 


THE  ROSE  OF  DRIMHAGH. 


115 


to  relate,  and  hope  it  may  prove  as  interesting  to 
the  reader  as  it  did  to  ourselves,  when  we  heard  it 
told  one  quiet  summer  evening  beneath  the  shadow 
of  the  ivy-wreathed  battlements  of  Drimnairh. 

During  the  reign  of  a  cei’tain  English  monarch, 
whose  name  we  need  not  particularly  mention.  Sir 
Hugh  de  Barnwell  ruled  with  a  high  and  lordly 
hand  in  his  feudal  stronghold  of  Drimnagh.  He 
was  a  stout  and  stern  knight,  whose  life  had  been 
spent  amid  the  commotions  of  the  war  that,  year  by 
year,  raged  between  the  Palesmen  and  the  Irishry. 
Many  a  tough  battle  he  had  fought,  and  many  a 
wound  he  had  received,  since  he  first  donned  the 
knightly  spurs ;  and  it  will  not  be  wondered  at,  there¬ 
fore,  when  we  mention  that  he  looked  upon  the 
native  races  around  with  no  small  amount  of 
hatred.  Among  those  against  whom  his  animosity 
burned  most  fiercely  were  the  O’Byrnes,  lords  of 
Imayle,  whose  chief  had  once  sacked  his  Castle  of 
Drimnagh,  and  driven  the  herds  pertaining  to  it 
^over  the  southern  mountain  barrier,  into  Wicklow. 
The  chief  was  still  living  at  the  time  our  story 
commences,  and  had  two  sons,  the  youngest  of 
whom,  named  Sir  John  O’Byrne,  was  a  knight  of 
unwonted  bravery.  To  his  great  personal  beauty 
was  added  every  accomplishment  fitted  for  one  of 
his  high  station ;  and  when,  at  the  head  of  his  bold 
horsemen,  he  rode  down  the  mountains,  on  a  foray 
into  the  Pale,  it  would  be  hard  to  find  in  the 
whole  wide  champaign  over  which  he  cast  his 


116 


THE  ROSE  OF  DRIMFAGH. 


eagle  eye  a  man  of  more  splendid  appearance  and 
gallant  bearing.  Sir  Hugh  de  Barnwell  had  one 
son,  who  was  renowned  throughout  the  Pale  for 
his  prowess,  and  for  the  ferocity  with  which  he 
always  fought  against  the  neighboring  chief  of 
Imayle.  The  following  will  explain  his  reasons  for 
hating  the  O’Byrnes  with  such  bitterness.  Living 
in  his  father’s  house  at  the  time,  was  his  cousin, 
Eleanora  de  Barnwell,  who,  in  consequence  of  her 
beauty,  was  called  “  The  Rose  of  Drimnagh.” 
To  this  young  lady  Sir  Edmond  de  Barnwell  had 
been  betrothed ;  and  matters  went  on  smoothly  and 
pleasantly  enough  for  some  time,  till,  during  a  truce 
entered  into  between  the  Palesmen  and  the  Wick¬ 
low  clans,  Eleanora  met  Sir  John  O’Byrne  at  a 
nobleman’s  house,  on  a  festival-day,  in  Dublin.  Up 
to  this.  The  Rose  of  Drimnagh  knew  little  of  her 
heart ;  but  she  soon  learned  to  love  the  young  Wick¬ 
low  chief,  and,  as  a  natural  consequence,  to  look 
with  coldness  and  indifference  upon  her  cousin,  who, 
at  length  coming  to  the  knowledge  of  the  affair, 
swore  to  be  avenged  upon  his  rival.  The  truce 
was  scarcely  over,  when  he  was  up  and  at  work ; 
and  many  a  rifled  hamlet  and  burning  dwelling 
marked  his  track  through  the  glens  of  Wicklow; 
and  many  a  desolate  widow  cursed  his  name  and 
race  as  she  sung  the  Jceen  over  the  bodies  of 
her  slaughtered  ones,  who  had  fallen  beneath  the 
spears  of  Sir  Edmond  de  Barnwell  and  his  ruth¬ 
less  followers. 


THE  ROSE  OF  DRIMNAGU. 


117 


Blit  at  last  a  time  came  when  a  triumphant  light 
shone  in  Sir  Edmond’s  eyes;  for  he  thought  upon 
the  day,  now  near  at  hand,  which  was  fixed  upon 
for  his  marriage  with  the  lovely  Rose  of  Drim- 
nagh. 

“  Once  more,” he  said,  “I  will  seek  the  mountains, 
to  find  him  before  the  marriage  revel.  By  the  soul 
of  a  knight,  an  I  lay  my  hands  upon  him,  but  he 
shall  rue  the  hour !  —  yes,  rue  it ;  for  I  swear  to  bring 
him  in  chains  to  look  upon  the  bridal,  and  then  to 
string  him  up,  as  I  would  one  of  his  own  mountain 
wolves,  upon  the  gallows-tree,  before  the  gate  of 
Drimnagh.” 

It  was  nightfall  as  he  spoke  thus.  Little  he  knew, 
that,  at  that  same  moment.  Sir  John  O’Byrne  was 
sitting  quietly  beneath  the  dark  shadows  of  a  tree 
outside  the  moat,  looking  up  cautiously  at  the  win¬ 
dow  of  the  little  chamber  in  which  Eleanora  de 
Barnwell  was  sitting,  weeping  bitterly  over  the  sad 
fate  to  which  she  knew  but  too  well  she  would  soon 
have  to  submit.  As  she  sat  thus,  a  low  soft  sound, 
like  the  cooing  of  a  dove,  fell  upon  her  ears.  She 
listened  intently  a  moment,  then  stepped  softly  over 
to  the  single  window  of  the  apartment,  and,  opening 
the  casement,  looked  out.  Again  the  sound  stole 
up  from  under  the  dense  foliage  that  shaded  the 
outer  edge  of  the  moat.  Eleanora  leaned  upon  the 
sill,  and  peered  down  into  the  gloom;  but  nothing 
met  her  gaze,  save  the  ghostly  shadows  of  the 
trees  upon  the  black  belt  of  water  beneath. 


118 


THE  ROSE  OF  DRIMNAGH. 


“  It  is  his  signal,”  she  whispered  to  herself  as  the 
sound  was  repeated  once  more.  “  Ah,  me !  I  fear  he 
will  get  himself  into  danger  on  account  of  these 
nightly  visits.  And  yet  I  cannot,  I  cannot  bid 
him  stay  away.” 

She  muffled  herself  in  a  dark  mantle,  moved 
towards  the  door,  opened  it  cautiously  and  listened, 
ere  she  ventured  to  steal  down  and  meet  her  lover, 

“  I  must  and  will  warn  him  to-night  to  stay 
away,”  continued  she,  as,  with  a  light  and  stealthy 
step,  she  descended  the  winding  stair,  —  “  ah !  to 
stay  away,  and  leave  me  to  jny  misery.  It  is  hard ; 
but  it  must  be  done :  otherwise  he  will  assuredly  be 
captured  and  slain.” 

After  stealing  down  an  infinite  number  of  dark 
passages,  corridors,  and  stairways,  she  at  length 
emerged  into  the  open  air,  and  glided  through  a 
neglected  postern,  out  beneath  a  spreading  beech- 
tree  that  shaded  the  inner  edge  of  the  moat,  oppo¬ 
site  the  spot  whence  the  signal  of  her  lover  pro¬ 
ceeded.  Again  she  peered  into  the  gloom  at  the 
other  side,  and  saw  there  a  tall  dark  figure  standing 
beneath  a  tree  on  the  edge  of  the  water.  Well  she 
knew  the  graceful  outlines  of  that  figure,  and  fondly 
her  heart  throbbed  at  the  sound  of  the  voice  that 
now  addressed  her. 

“Dearest,”  said  the  young  mountain  knight  in  a 
low  tone,  “  I  thought  thou  wouldst  never  come.  I 
have  been  standing  like  a  statue  against  the  trunk 
of  this  tree  behind  me  for  the  last  half-hour,  watch- 


THE  ROSE  OF  DRlMNAGH. 


119 


ing  for  a  light  in  thy  window-pane.  But  it  seems 
that  darkness  pleases  thee  better.  Ah,  Eleanora !  I 
hope  thou  art  not  still  indulging  in  those  sorrowful 
forebodings.” 

“  And  wherefore  not,  John?”  answered  she  sadly. 
“  What  thoughts  but  gloomy  ones  can  fill  my  mind, 
when  I  am  ever  thinking  of  the  danger  thou  incur- 
rest  by  coming  here  so  often,  —  and  thinking,  too,” 
she  added,  after  a  pause,  “  of  the  woful  fate  to 
which  we  are  destined  ?  ” 

“  Think  no  more  on’t,”  said  her  lover,  in  a  cheer¬ 
ful  tone.  “We  have  hope  yet,  Eleanora;  for,  mark 
me,  thy  marriage  with  Sir  Edmond  de  Barnwell  will 
never  take  place.” 

“Alas!  there  is  no  hope,”  resumed  Eleanora. 
“  Even  to-day,  my  uncle,  the  Knight  of  Drimnagh, 
hath  fixed  the  time  for  —  to  me  —  the  woful  bridal. 
And  thou,  John  —  let  this  be  our  last  meeting,  alas! 
in  this  world.  W ert  thou  taken  prisoner  by  my  dark 
cousin,  he  hates  thee  so,  that  he  would  burn  thee  at 
a  stake  in  the  courtyard.” 

“  Fear  not  for  that,  dearest,”  answered  the  young 
chief  “  And  this  bridal  that  thou  fearest.  Listen, 
Eleanora.  Before  the  hour  comes,  or,  perchance,  at 
the  very  hour  when  he  is  about  to  place  the  bridal¬ 
ring  upon  thy  lily  finger,  the  gay  goshawk  may 
swoop  down,  and  bear  thee  away  to  his  free  moun¬ 
tains,  amid  their  sunny  glens  and  bosky  woods, 
to  love  thee,  darling,  as  no  other  mortal  man  could 
love  thee.” 


120 


THE  ROSE  OF  DRIMNAGH. 


“  Ah  me  !  ”  sighed  poor  Eleanora.  “  W ould  that 
it  could  be  so !  But  I  fear  that  we  are  fated  to  see 
each  other  for  the  last  time  to-night.  I  warn  thee, 
John,  to  be  wary  henceforth  ;  for  I  am  well-watched. 
Hush  !  Avas  that  a  foot-fall  amid  the  grove  yonder  ?  ” 
And  she  pointed  to  a  clump  of  trees  some  distance 
to  the  right  of  where  her  lover  stood. 

“  By  my  faith  but  it  may  be  so !  ”  answered  he ; 
“  and  so  thou  hadst  better  return  to  thy  chamber. 
In  the  mean  time,  I  Avill  wait  here  till  I  see  the  light 
in  thy  window  once  more,  and  until  thou  biddest  me 
farewell  from  the  casement.” 

Again  they  listened,  and  heard  a  slight  rustling 
sound  amid  the  trees  to  which  Eleanora  had 
pointed.  It  ceased ;  and  then  the  fair  Rose  of 
Drimnagh,  trembling  at  the  thought  of  her  fierce 
cousin,  waved  a  fond  farewell  to  her  mountain  lover, 
and,  gliding  once  more  through  the  postern,  as¬ 
cended  the  stairs  to  her  chamber.  But  the  bold 
Knight  of  Imayle  was  not  to  be  frightened  away  by 
the  sound,  whatever  might  have  caused  it.  He 
moved  in  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  tree,  listened 
for  a 'time,  and,  hearing  nothing  further,  advanced 
again,  and  looked  up  to  where  the  light  was  now 
burning  brightly  in  Eleanora’s  window.  Seating 
himself  upon  the  side  of  the  moat,  in  the  shadow, 
and  still  looking  fondly  upward,  he  commenced,  in 
a  voice  low,  but  distinct,  a  lay  to  his  mistress,  of 
which  the  following  paraphrase  may  convey  some 
idea :  — 


THE  ROSE  OF  BRIMNAGH. 


121 


“  Oh  !  wilt  thou  come  and  be  my  bride  1 
Oh  !  wilt  thou  fly  with  me 

Where  wild  streams  glide  by  mountain-side, 

By  glen  and  forest-tree  ? 

And  thou’lt  be  lady  of  that  land, 

And  like  a  queen  shalt  reign 

O’er  shore  and  strand,  and  mountain  grand. 

And  many  a  sunny  plain ! 

I’ve  found  a  lone  and  lovely  cave 
Where  gleams  a  little  lake  ; 

Where  the  wild  rills  fling  the  silver  wave. 

And  the  birds  sing  in  the  brake  : 

The  lake  gleams  clear,  the  rills  dance  bright, 

Down  gorge  and  rocky  pile ; 

But  the  darkness  of  a  starless-  night 
Is  in  my  soul  the  while. 

And  nought  can  light  it,  save  a  glance, 

.  A  beam,  from  thy  jet-black  eye ; 

And  nought  can  break  my  heart’s  cold  trance 
Save  thy  witching  song  or  sigh. 

Then  come !  I’ve  decked  that  cave  for  thee 
With  summer’s  fairest  flowers  ; 

Away,  away,  o’er  the  hills  with  me. 

To  the  forest  glens  and  bowers  !  ” 

The  moment  the  song  had  ceased,  the  fair  form 
of  the  Rose  of  Drimnagh  appeared  at  the  casement 
overhead.  She  waved  a  fond  farewell  to  her  young 
mountain  minstrel,  and  closed  the  window  ;  but  the 
light  that  shone  through  its  pane  had  now  lost  its 
charm  for  him,  as  he  had  no  longer  her  fair  face  to 
look  upon.  He  stood  up,  and,  gazing  once  more 


122 


THE  ROSE  OF  DRIMNAGH. 


at  the  casement  that  glimmered  like  a  star  amid 
the  dark  masses  of  masonry  above,  turned  to  depai't, 
when  he  felt  the  heavy  grasp  of  a  steel-clad  hand 
upon  his  shoulder. 

“  Stay !  ”  exclaimed  the  intruder  in  a  deep,  stern 
voice,  whose  tone  the  young  Knight  of  Imayle 
knew  but  too  well.  “Thou  hast  a  small  account  to 
settle,  fair  sii',  ere  thou  leavest  this  spot.  I  am  Sir 
Edmond  De  Barnwell.” 

“And  I,”  answered  the  other,  “am  Sir  John 
O’Byrne  of  Imayle :  what  seekest  thou  from  me  ?  ” 

“  That  thou  shalt  soon  know,  skulking  hill-cat !  ” 
answered  De  Barnwell,  unbuckling  his  sword,  un¬ 
sheathing  it,  and  throwing  belt  and  scabbard  upon 
the  ground.  “There  be  a  certain  tide  which  men 
call  blood,  coursing  beneath  that  breast-plate  of 
thine.  I  seek  to  discover  its  fount  with  this ;  ”  and 
he  extended  his  weapon. 

“There  be  a  certain  tide  behind  thee  which  thou 
art  more  likely  to  explore  presently !  ”  retorted 
O’Byrne.  “  Ha,  ha !  beware  the  hill-cat’s  spring, 
De  Barnwell !  ”  and  he  gave  a  sudden  bound  that 
brought  him  inside  the  guard  of  his  antagonist, 
whose  waist  he  instantly  encircled  with  his  sinewy 
arms.  There  was  an  inetfectual  attempt  to  pluck 
forth  their  daggers ;  and  then  Sir  Edmond  De  Barn¬ 
well  was  hurled  from  the  stalwart  arms  of  the 
brave  Knight  of  Imayle,  and  sent  plunging  headlong 
into  the  black  waters  of'  the  moat.  Leaving  his  foe 
to  scramble  as  best  he  could  from  his  dangerous 


THE  ROSE  Oi^  DRIMNAGH. 


123 


bath  in  the  fosse,  O’Byrne  glided  through  the  thick¬ 
ets,  and  sought  his  steed,  which  he  had  left  in  a 
lonely  grove  hard  by,  and  was  soon  riding  in  head¬ 
long  haste  across  the  plain  towards  the  stern  moun¬ 
tain  barrier  that  lay  between  him.  and  his  native 
glens.  And  now  De  Barnwell,  after  extricating 
himself  with  great  difficulty  from  the  treacherous 
waters,  stood,  all  dripping,  upon  the  firm  bank;  his 
burly  frame  quivering,  not  from  the  chill  of  his 
immersion,  but  from  fury  at  his  mishap.  Pursuit  of 
his  late  antagonist  was,  he  knew,  of  little  use  now ; 
so,  plucking  up  his  sword  which  lay  beside  him,  he 
raised  the  cold  steel  blade  to  his  lips,  kissed  it, 
vowed  a' stern  vow  of  vengeance  against  O’Byrne 
and  his  race,  root  and  branch ;  and  then,  striding 
down  by  the  water’s  side,  crossed  the  drawbridge, 
and  sought  his  chamber,  where  he  sat,  till  long 
after  midnight,  brooding  over  various  plans  of  mer¬ 
ciless  and  bloody  retribution. 

The  particulars  of  his  subsequent  cruel  raid  into 
the  glens  of  Wicklow  it  is  unnecessary  to  relate; 
and  we  shall  now  come  to  the  day  which  his  father 
had  fixed  upon  for  the  marriage.  It  was  early  in 
the  morning;  and  the  fair  Rose  of  Drimnagh,  sur¬ 
rounded  by  her  lovely  maids,  looked  sadly  upon  the 
gorgeous  Avhite  bridal-dress  which  lay  on  a  table 
beside  her,  and  which  she  was  at  last  about  to  put 
on. 

“  Ah  me !  ”  she  sighed  mournfully,  “  that  it  hath 
come  to  this !  In  vain  have  I  watched  for  him  to 


124 


THE  ROSE  OF  DRIMNAGH. 


appear  in  his  accustomed  place  by  the  moat ;  but  his 
promise  is  broken :  and  what  could  have  broken  it 
but  death  ?  ”  And  the  tears  gathered  into  her  eyes 
as  she  thought  thus  of  her  lover. 

“  Cheer  thee,  Eleanora!  ”  said  her  cousin,  a  young 
and  gay  city  dame.  “I  warrant  thee  that  such  a 
bridal  as  thine  was  never  seen  in  Dublin:  I  only 
wish  I  were  in  thy  place.” 

“  Alas  that  thou  art  not !  ”  returned  Eleanora. 
“  Something  tells  me  that  what  thou  sayest  is  but 
too  true,  —  that  such  a  bridal  as  mine  was  never 
seen.”  And  with  the  help  of  her  maids  she  now 
began  to  don  the  dress. 

The  marriage  was  to  take  place  in  the  city ;  and 
Sir  Edmond  de  Barnwell  had  summoned  his  kins¬ 
men  of  the  Pale,  with  all  their  fierce  retainers,  in 
order  to  strengthen  his  escort  for  the  bridal-train, 
which  at  last,  in  splendid  array,  crossed  the  draw¬ 
bridge  of  Drimnagh,  and  moved  along  the  winding 
road  that  led  to  the  western  gate  of  Dublin.  This 
road  was  crossed  by  another,  midway  between 
the  castle  and  the  city,  and  within  a  wood  which 
stretched  down  from  the  mountains  to  the  shores  of 
the  Liffey.  About  half  the  bridal-train  had  passed 
the  cross;  and  the  remainder,  with  the  bride  and 
bridegroom  before  them,  were  moving  gayly  forward, 
when  all  at  once  the  wild  war-cry  of  the  O’Byrnes 
resounded  from  the  wood  all  around,  and  the  next 
instant  a  large  body  of  men,  headed  by  the  young 
Knight  of  Imayle,  sprang  from  their  concealment, 


THE  ROSE  OF  DRIMHAGH. 


125 


and  fell  upon  the  escort  front,  rear,  and  flank.  It  is 
needless  to  go  minutely  into  the  details  of  the  terri¬ 
ble  fight  that  then  took  place  at  the  Minstrel’s  Cross, 
as  the  spot  was  called.  The  escort  were  at  first  put 
to  flight  and  pursued  by  the  O’Byrnes ;  but,  return¬ 
ing  again  to  the  charge,  the  light  kern  of  the 
mountains  were  borne  down  by  their  heavy  horses, 
though  they  fought  it  out  bravely  to  the  last.  The 
Knight  of  Imayle,  after  badly  wounding  the  bride¬ 
groom,  was  shot  through  the  heart  by  the  old  Lord 
of  Drimnagh,  as  he  attempted  to  seize  the  bridle  of 
Eleanora’s  palfrey.  This  ended  the  fray.  The  body 
of  the  young  knight  was  borne  away  by  his  follow¬ 
ers,  and  buried  in  the  lonely  graveyard  that  lay 
amid  the  mountains.  The  bridal-train,  instead  of 
proceeding  to  Dublin,  returned  to  the  Castle  of 
Drimnaofh,  where  Sir  Edmond  de  Barnwell  was  laid 
upon  a  bed  from  which  he  never  rose. 

Three  days  after  the  fatal  battle  at  the  Minstrel’s 
Cross,  Eleanora  disappeared  from  the  Castle  of  Drim- 
nasfh.  Search  was  made  for  her  throughout  the  sur- 

O  ^ 

rounding  country,  and  even  in  the  neighboring  city ; 
but  it  was  of  no  avail :  she  was  nowhere  to  be  found. 
At  length  a  party  of  the  O’Byrnes,  who  were  driv¬ 
ing  a  creaght  of  cattle  across  the  mountains,  halted 
beside  the  solitary  churchyard  to  pay  a  visit  to  their 
young  chief,  and,  upon  the  fresh  sod  that  lay  above 
his  gallant  breast,  found  the  lifeless  body  of  the 
ill-fated  Rose  of  Drimnagh.  They  hollowed  her  a 


126 


THE  ROSE  OF  DRIMNAQH. 


grave  beside  her  lover ;  and  there,  in  the  words  of 
the  old  ballad,  — 

“  These  loving  hearts  by  fortune  blighted, 

By  sorrow  tried  full  sore, 

In  life  apart,  in  death  united, 

Sleep  side  by  side  forevermore.” 


% 


The  House  of  Lisbloom. 

* 

A  - LEGEND  OF  SARSFIELD. 


- • - 

♦ 

CHAPTER  I. 

SHOWING  HOW  ELLIE  CONNELL  SENDS  NEWS  OF  HERSELF 
TO  HER  LOVER. — CONTAINING  ALSO  THE  FIGHT  BETWEEN 
GALLOPING  o’hOGAN  AND  THE  CAPTAIN  OP  BLUE  DRAGOONS 
IN  THE  SWAMP  OF  MONA. 

Between  two  of  the  abrupt  Ihlls  which  shoot 
out  upon  the  Limerick  plain  from  the  wild 
range  of  Sliav  Bloom,  there  is  a  deep  pass  commu¬ 
nicating  with'  level  country  on  each  side,  and  send¬ 
ing  down  a  noisy  stream  to  swell  the  waters  of  the 
Mulkern,  that  wdnds  far  beyond  into  the  Shannon. 
To  the  careless  or  ignorant  observer,  this  pass  pre¬ 
sents  little  to  distinguish  it  from  the  many  in  its 
neighborhood,  save  its  somewhat  greater  depth  and 
barrenness ;  but  it  will  at  once  strike  a  person-  having 
even  a  slight  knowledge  of  the  art  military  as  a 
spot  of  much  importance  in  time  of  war.  In  the 
latter  point  of  view,  indeed,  it  seems  to  have  been 

127 


128 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


looked  upon  by  the  contending  parties  in  the 
various  struggles  that  desolated  this  island  in  for¬ 
mer  times :  and  well  they  might  so  regard  it ;  for, 
besides  leading  directly  to  an  ancient  ford  across 
the  Shannon,  it  formed  the  safest  outlet  from  the 
fruitful  plains  that  lay,  with  all  their  towns  and 
strong  military  positions,  to  tlnj^  eastward. 

As  you  proceed  up  the  pass,  about  midway  be¬ 
tween  its  two  extremities,  a  huge  mound  rises 
before  you,  with  the  small  stream  half  encircling  its 
base.  On  the  summit  lie  a  heap  of  grass-covered 
ruins,  surrounded  by  "half-obliterated  outworks,  and 
a  deep,  dry  ditch,  that,  with  its  bristling  palisadoes, 
must  have  once  formed  a  formidable  barrier  against 
the  entrance  of  a  foe.  These  ruins  are  the  remains 
of  what,  about  a  century  and  a  half  ago,  was  a 
fortified  and  very  strong  mansion,  called  the  House 
of  Lisbloom. 

This  house,  during  the  various  wars,  often 
changed  masters ;  and  at  the  period  to  which  our 
story  relates  was  in  the  possession  of  a  man  whom, 
of  all  others,  and  for  very  plain  reasons,  the  sur¬ 
rounding  peasantry  least  relished  as  its  loi’d.  His 
name  was  Gideon  Grimes.  The  father  of  the 
worthy  Gideon  was  an  undertaker ;  that  is,  an  Eng¬ 
lish  settler,  who  had  made  his  home  in  that  part 
of  the  country  after  the  termination  of  the  Crom¬ 
wellian  wars,  and  there,  amidst  the  conquests  of  his 
bow  and  spear,  had  amused  himself  by  occasionally 
hunting  Rapparees,  and,  when  successful  in  the 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


129 


chase,  hanging  the  poor  fugitives  without  trial  to 
the  next  handy  tree.  The  bold  Gideon  himself 
followed  for  a  time  with  a  high  hand  in  the  foot¬ 
steps  of  his  departed  and  redoubtable  sire ;  but 
with  this  difference,  that,  whereas  the  defunct 
Roundhead  was  consistent,  and  sternly  held  to  his 
principle  of  exterminating  the  poor  Irishry  by  the 
sword  alone,  the  more  sagacious  son  adopted,  in 
the  lapse  of  time,  a  safer  and  more  peaceful  method 
of  venting  his  hatred  upon  his  war-broken  neigh¬ 
bors.  Making  use  of  the  terrible  laws,  which,  of 
course,  were  all  on  his  side,  he'  succeeded  in  driving 
several  of  the  poor  farmers  around  to  beggary  and 
death,  and,  seizing  their  holdings,  thus  enriched 
himself  and  gratified  his  inborn  hatred  of  the  un¬ 
fortunate  peasantry  at  the  same  time. 

One  instance  will  suffice  to  show  the  methods 
used  by  Black  Gideon,  —  for  so  he  was  called  by 
the  people,  —  one,  too,  that  had  an  important  bear¬ 
ing  upon  his  after  fate.  It  happened  that  his  next 
neighbor  was  a  farmer,  named  Murrogh  Connell, 
whose  ancestors  had  been  gentlemen  of  large  prop¬ 
erty,  but  who  having  been  broken  “  horse  and  foot,” 
as  they  say,  during  the  great  rebellion  and  the  pre¬ 
vious  troubles,  had  left  Murrogh  the  possessor  of 
only  a  farm, —  a  rich  and  large  one,  however,  at 
the  entrance  of  the  pass  of  Lisbloora.  On  this 
farm  Black  Gideon  had  long  cast  his  rapacious  eye, 
concocting  various  plans  for  obtaining  possession 
of  it,  all  of  which,  in  one  way  or  another,  failed. 


9 


130 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


At  last  one  of  liis  spies  came  to  him  with  the  valu¬ 
able  information  that  a  number  of  old  pikes  and 
matchlocks  lay  concealed  in  a  ruinous  barn  belong¬ 
ing  to  poor  Murrogh  Connell’s  farmstead.  This 
was  enough.  Gideon  brought  the  law  down  like 
a  sledge-hammer  upon  his  unfortunate  neighbor, 
ruined  him,  and  was  just  on  the  point  of  turning 
him  out  of  his  farm,  when  the  Williamite  revolution 
commenced,  the  Battle  of  the  Boyne  was  fought, 
and  the  retreating  Irish  armies  took  possession  of 
the  south  of  Ireland.  This  gave  a  short  respite  to 
Murrogh  Connell.  But  the  second  siege  of  Lim¬ 
erick  commenced;  and  the  Williaraites,  in  their 
turn,  occupied  all  the  country  to  the  south  and 
east.  So,  feeling  himself  once  more  in  power.  Black 
Gideon  drove  out  Murrogh,  Avho,  with  his  herds  of 
cattle^  betook  himself  to  the  wild  mountains  of  Sliav 
Bloom,  and  commenced  the  life  of  a  kyriaght,  or 
wandering  grazier  of  cattle. 

About  a  week  after  MiuTogh’s  flight  to  the  moun¬ 
tains,  his  only  daughter,  Elbe,  a  beautiful  young 
girl,  walked  down  one  evening  to  fetch  water  from 
a  spring  near  their  camping-place,  but  never  re¬ 
turned.  Search  was  made  for  her  far  and  near,  but 
never  a  trace  of  her  could  be  found ;  and,  with 
bleeding  hearts,  her  father,  her  tym  brothers,  and 
Tibbot  Burke,  a  young  gentleman  to  whom  she 
was  betrothed  a  year  previously,  at  length  returned 
and  told  the  sad  tale  to  her  mother.  Suspicion  in¬ 
deed  fell  upon  Gideon  Grimes  who,  it  was  re- 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


131 


marked,  had  cast  his  eye  upon  her  as  well  as  upon 
lier  father’s  lands;  hut  nothing  certain  regarding 
him  or  his  proceedings  could  be  gathered  by  her 
friends,  notwithstanding  that  they  watched  him 
closely. 

One  bright  autumn  noon  the  sun  glittered  from 
the  spades,  shovels,  and  hammers  of  a  number  of 
men  whom  Black  Gideon  had  employed  to  build  up 
the  breaches  in  tim  outworks  of  his  mansion  in  the 
pass,  in  order  to  secure  himself  from  the  bands  of 
Rapparees  who  hung  around  the  Williamite  army, 
then  commencing  its  operations  upon  the  gallant 
city  of  Limerick,  One  of  these  laborers  was  a  di¬ 
minutive,  brown-skinned,  wiry-looking  young  fellow, 
who,  by  the  way  he  handled  his  spade,  seemed  no 
very  diligent  workman  in  the  cause  of  Gideon. 
Under  a  remote  gable-end  of  the  house,  he  was 
employed  clearing  away  some  rubbish  and  weeds ; 
and,  as  he  worked  lazily  under  the  blaze  of  the  hot 
sun,  he  solaced  himself  occasionally  with  a  little 
conversation  addressed  to  himself,  intei’spersed  with 
some  fragments  of  ballad  poetry,  the  fag-ends  of 
which  he  ornamented  with  various  delectable 
choruses  that  seemed,  from  the  way  he  doubled 
and  trebled  and  again  dwelt  upon  them,  to  soothe 
his  spirit  mightily  under  his  distressing  labor. 

“Wisha,  may  the  blessed  fingers  fall  off  o’me,” 
exclaimed  he  at  length,  as  he  struck  his  spade 
against  some  loose  stones  at  the  base  of  the  wall, 
« if  I  haven’t  found  the  very  thing’  I  wanted  !  ” 


132 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


He  looked  cantiousl}'^  round  Lira.  The  laborers 
were  all  so  busy  at  the  outward  wall  that  they  could 
not  observe  him.  “Dhar  Dhia !”  continued  he,  as 
"  he  bent  the  tall  nettles  that  concealed  the  spot 
aside  with  his  spade,  and  examined  the  spot  with  his 
black,  glittering  eyes.  “  Lord  have  marcy  on  us,  if  id 
isn’t  the  very  hole  that  my  grandfather  entered  wid 
his  men  when  he  killed  every  livin’  sowl  o’  the 
bloody  Parliamenthers  that  held  Lisbloom  long  ago 
in  the  time  o’  Crurnmill !  Aisy  a  bit,  Cus  Russid ! 
P’raps  the  time  will  come  when  you’ll  do  as  well  as 
your  bowld  grandfather,  — rest  his  sowl  in  glory  this 
blessed  day,  amin  !  —  an  burn  the  house  over  Black 
Gideon  an’  his  murtherin’  villains.  There’s  a  doore 
for  the  brave  Rapparees,  an’  ids  myself  that’ll  soon 
take  the  news  to  them  fresh  and  fastin’.  ”  And  with 
that  he  carefully  arranged  the  long  nettles  again, 
and  recommenced  his  work  and  his  song. 

While  Cus  Russid  —  we  will  give  him  the  cogno¬ 
men  used  by  himself,  which  means  Brown  Foot  — 
was  hanging  on  one  of  the  most  Elysian  bars  of  a 
certain  chorus,  he  heard  his  name  pronounced  in  a 
low,  sweet  voice  from  the  single  window  above  him 
in  the  gable,  and  on  looking  up  beheld  the  prettiest 
face  imaginable,  shaded  with  rich  masses  of  yellow 
hair,  bent  upon  him  with  an  eager  and  frightened 
gaze  from  between  the  strong  iron  bars. 

“  Tundher  alive,  if  id  isn’t  Ellie  Connell  herself !  ” 
exclaimed  he,  wheeling  round,  and  resting  on  his 
spade,  “  Oh,  wirra,  wirra !  is  id  here  I  find  you  ?  ” 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


133 


“Hush  !”  said  Ellie,  for  it  was  she:  “I  have  but 
a  moment.  If  you  love  ray  father’s  house,  Cus 
Russid,  away  with  you,  not  to  my  father  or  brothers, 
for  they  can  do  nothing,  I  fear,  but  to  my  uncle 
O’Hogan  and  Tibbot  Burke,  and  tell  them  that  I 
am  here !  ”  And  the  casement  was  shut  instantly,  and 
Elbe’s  face  withdrawn. 

“  May  the  four  bones  wither  in  my  brown  car- 
kiss,”  said  Cus  Russid,  “  if  I  don’t  find  them  soon 
an’  suddint  for  you !  ”  And  with  that  he  cast  his 
spade  from  him ;  and  slinking  over,  like  a  fox,  to  a 
half-filled  gap  in  the  outworks,  he  crossed  the  ditch, 
unobserved  by  his  companions,  and  soon  gained  the 
wood  that  clothed  the  opposite  side  of  the  pass. . 

On  reaching  the  summit  of  the  ridgy  hill  that 
formed  the  western  flank  of  the  pass,  Cus  Russid 
walked  deliberately  to  a  thicket  beneath  a  rock, 
and  took  therefrom  an  ashen  staff,  like  a  pike-handle, 
with  a  stnall  iron  ring  at  one  end,  to  which  was 
attached  a  piece  of  strong  twine  with  a  loop  at  its 
extremity.  Again  he  dived  his  hand  into  the  ferns, 
and  pulled  out  a  thick  frieze  cothamore,  in  which 
he  instantly  arrayed  himself.  He  then  put  his  hand 
into  an  inside  j^ocket  of  the  cotha,  and  drew  forth  a 
long,  bright  spear-head;  and,  after  gazing  upon  it 
with  great  comfort  for  a  moment,  replaced  it  in  its 
hiding-place,  turned,  and  shook  his  fist  at  the  house 
of  Lisbloorn,  and  then,  gradually  sliding  from  a 
walk  into  a  trot,  went  at  a  formidable  pace  across 
the  country  to  the  westward. 


134 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


After  travelling  thus  for  about  a  dozen  miles,  he 
at  length  sat  down  upon  a  height,  and  looked  over 
a  winding  road  that  led  directly  towards  him 
through  the  woody  country  from  the  north-west. 
Advancing  along  this  road  he  soon  perceived  a 
troop  of  Williamite  cavalry,  with  a  large  glittering 
cannon  in  their  midst.  It  would  have  been  the 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world  for  Cus  Russid  to 
run  away  at  such  a  sight.  He  did  no  such  thing, 
however ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  using  his  spear- 
handle  for  a  walking-staff,  he  descended  the  height, 
and  advanced  boldly  along  the  road  to  meet  them. 

“  What’s  your  name,  my  man  ?  ”  said  the  com¬ 
mander  of  the  troop,  as  they  came  up.  “  Come, 
out  with  it  and  your  business  too,  for  no  man  passes 
here  unquestioned.” 

“  Wisha !  ”  answered  Cus,  with  a  look  of  wonder¬ 
ful  sheepishness  and  simplicity :  “  they  calls  me  Cus 
Russid,  sii-,  by  raison  o’  these  misforthunate  brown 
feet  I  have  upon  me.  Bud  maybe  your  honor  didn’t 
see  any  cattle  about  here,  for  my  masther  sint  me 
every  morthial  step  from  the  House  o’  Lisbloom  to 
look  for  them.  Bad  luck  to  them,  ’tis  a  sore  an’ 
sorrowful  journey  they’re  givin’  me !  ” 

“  It  is  strange  that  we  happen  to  be  going  to  the 
very  place  he  speaks  of,”  said  the  commander  to 
the  young  officer  that  rode  beside  him.  “  Tell  me, 
boy,”  continued  he,  turning  to  Cus,  “is  it  far  to 
Lisbloom  ?  ” 

“’Tis  a  sore  journey,  sir,”  answered  the  latter. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


135 


• 

“  But  maybe  you’re  the  giiieral  that’s  goin’  to  defind 
id  for  Misther  Gideon  Grimes  against  the  Rap- 
parees ;  for  if  you  are  —  there  !  I  see  the  cattle  be- 
yant  there  in  the  wood,  an’  I’ll  just  go  an’  dhrive 
them  up ;  and  then  if  I  don’t  lade  you  in  pace  an’ 
quietness  up  to  the  very  gate  o’  Lisbloom.” 

“  Pass  on  then,  and  be  soon  back,”  said  the  cap¬ 
tain,  as  he  turned  and  followed  his  troop. 

“Yes,  pass  on,”  muttered  Cus,  after  meeting  two 
dragoons  who  rode  at  a  good  distance  behind  ;  “  but 
wait  till  I  come  to  the  rereguard,  an’,  be  the  sowl  o’ 
my  father  !  I’ll  give  you  a  different  story  to  tell,  you 
murtherin  robber.” 

The  dragoon  who  formed  the  extreme  rearguard 
seemed  to  have,  from  some  cause  or  other,  dagged 
behind.  Cus  Russid  therefore  had  full  time  for 
preparation.  He  took  out  his  spear-head,  stuck  it 
carefully  on  his  ashen  shaft,  and  there  fastened  it  by 
means  of  a  small  screw.  Then,  like  a  wolf  awaiting 
his  prey,  he  darted  down  into  a  hollow,  and  there 
crouching  amid  the  copse,  with  blazing  eyes  and 
clenched  teeth,  glared  out  upon  the  lonely  road. 
The  unsuspecting  dragoon  at  length  rode  merrily 
up  ;  but,  as  he  passed,  the  deadly  spear  whizzed  out 
from  the  bush,  and  struck  him  beneath  the  helmet 
on  the  neck.  Almost  before  he  reached  the  ground 
in  his  fall,  Cus  Russid  had  plucked  the  spear  from 
his  bleeding  neck,  with  one  bound  was  on  his  horse, 
and  tearing  away  like  a  demon  at  a  furious  gallop 
across  the  country. 


136 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


Finding  that  he  was  not  pursued,  after  nearly 
half  a  dozen  miles’  mad  riding,  Cus  Russid  slackened 
the  pace  of  the  strong  troop-hoi’se,  and  rode  along 
with  a .  light  and  contented  heart  over  the  level 
jdain,  with  every  rood  of  which  he  seemed  to  be 
intimately  acquainted.  It  was  sunset  when  he 
gained  the  verge  of  a  thick  and  extensive  wood, 
that  stretched  along  the  base  and  up  the  sides  of  a 
rugged  mountain.  Once  more  putting  his  horse  to 
a  brisk  gallop,  he  dashed  along  a  tangled  pathway, 
and  at  last  emerged  into  a  little  sylvan  valley  with 
a  beautiful  stream  gurgling  down  through  its  bosom. 
At  the  foot  of  a  steep,  limestone  rock,  that  jutted 
out  to  within  a  few  yards  of  the  rivulet,  he  beheld 
three  men  sitting  under  a  spreading  oak-tree,  two 
of  whom  he  instantly  recognized.  The  one  nearest 
to  him,  as  he  rode  up,  was  a  young  man  of  very 
handsome  presence,  tall,  lithe,  and  brown-haired, 
and  armed  with  carbine,  sword,  and  pistol.  His 
corselet  and  morion,  in  the  latter  of  which  was 
stuck  a  spray  of  green  fern  by  way  of  a  plume, 
glittered  in  the  red  beams  of  the  sun,  as  he  sat  with 
a  drinking-flask  in  his  hand  upon  the  bank  over  the 
water.  The  other  was  a  man  nearly  forty  years  of 
age,  of  somewhat  low  stature,  but  herculean  build 
of  frame,  and  with  an  oval  face  rendered  almost 
black  by  exposure  to  the  suns  of  many  climates. 
He  was  armed  like  his  younger  comrade,  with  the 
exception  of  his  sword ;  which,  from  the  size  of  its 
scabbard,  seemed  of  unusual  length  and  weight. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


137 


The  third,  whom  Cus  did  not  recognize,  was  a  man 
of  far  taller  stature  than  the  young  man  above  men¬ 
tioned,  of  a  nobler  and  more  commanding  aspect, 
and  with  an  eye  that  seemed  to  pierce  to  the  very 
marrow  of  the  brown-footed  messenger,  as  the  latter 
now  sprang  from  his  horse,  and  walked  forward 
towards  the  tree. 

“  Captain,”  said  Cus  Russid,  as  he  approached  the 
dark-visaged  man,  “  I  have  bad  news  for  you.” 

O’Hogan,  or  Galloping  O’Hogan,  as  he  was  usually 
called,  —  for  it  was  that  gallant  captain,  —  started 
to  his  feet,  and  bent  his  keen,  black  eyes  upon  Cus. 

“What  is  it?”  asked  he.  “There  seems  to  be 
nothing  but  bad  news  for  us  now-a-days,  poor 
Brown  Foot.”  • 

“Your  niece,  Ellie  Connell,  is  in  the  hands  of 
Black  Gideon  o’  Lisbloora,  —  bad  luck  to  him,  seed, 
breed,  an’  gineration,  I  say,  amen !  —  an’  she  towld 
me  to  tell  you,  for  your  life,  to  release  her  soon  an’ 
suddint.” 

“  This  is  pleasant  news  for  you,  Tibbot  Burke,” 
said  O’Hogan  to  his  younger  companion.  “But  no 
matter.  We  will  set  Ellie  free,  and  put  Black 
Gideon’s  house  in  order  sooner,  I  dare  swear,  than 
he  reckons.  The  place  tliis  boy  mentions,  my  lord,” 
continued  he,  turning  to  the  other,  —  “Lisbloom,  is 
the  house  that  commands  the  important  j^ass  I 
mentioned  to  you.  We  will  see  to  it  to-morrow  or 
next  day.  In  the  meantime,  we  had  better  arrange 
our  bivouac  and  go  to  sleep,  after  our  hard  day’s 


138 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


ride ;  for  we  have  much  before  us  on  the  morrow. 
Cus,  my  boy,  attend  to  your  horse,  which  seems  in  a 
sad  state,  —  see,  5urs  are  picquetted  in  the  wood,  — 
and  then  come  hither ;  for  you  must  keep  the  first 
watch.” 

In  half  an  hour  after,  they  were  asleep,  Cus  Rus- 
sid  standing  sentinel  beneath  the  tree. 

The  sun  of  the  next  morning  found  them  far 
away  from  their  camping-place,  riding  on  at  a  brisk 
trot  towards  the  east,  and  all  laughing  heartily  at 
Cus  Russid’s  account  of  his  capture  of  the  troop- 
horse.  They  were  now  approaching  on  their  right 
the  verge  of  a  great  marsh,  called  the  Swamp  of 
Mona,  many  miles  in  extent,  and  with  a  sluggish 
river 'oozing  down  lazily  through  its  centre.  The 
track  on  which  they  rode  wound  along  the  bosky  * 
skirt  of  a  wood,  which,  at  some  distance  in  advance, 
sent  out  its  thickets  and  scattered  trees  to  within 
about  a  mile  of  the  low  verge  of  the  swamp. 
O’Hogan,  who  was  somewhat  in  advance,  suddenly 
reined  up  the  stoutly-built  but  rather  small  nag  he 
rode,  and  pointed  to  this  projection  of  the  wood. 
As  he  did  so,  they  beheld  the  vanguard  and  advance 
column  of  an  army  slowly  emerging  into  the  sun¬ 
light,  their  arms  glittering  and  flashing,  and  their 
banners  fluttering  gayly  in  the  buxom  breeze  of  the 
blithe  autumn  morning. 

“My  lord,”  exclaimed  O’Hogan,  riding  back  to 
him  whom  he  addressed,  “  you  see  we  have  raised 
the  men  of  Kerry  in  good  time  against  the  invasion 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


139 


of  General  Tettan.  There  he  is  with  a  vengeance  ! 
There  are  his  savage  Danish  infantry  and  his  blue 
Dutch  dragoons !  ” 

“  Eor  a  verity,  I  believe  it  is  so,”  answered  the 
other.  “But  we  must  be  now  quick  to  act,  or  we 
stand  a  good  chance  of  having  an  audience  of  the 
Dutchman.  My  brave  captain,  as  you  claim  to  be 
general  on  this  side  of  the  Shannon,  you  must  direct 
me  what  to  do  on  the  moment;  for  you  know  it 
would  not  serve  the  cause  of  the  king  to  have  me 
taken  prisoner  in  an ’hour  or  so.” 

“  Away  with  you,  then,  my  lord,  —  you  and  my 
lieutenant,  Tibbot,  and  Brown  Foot,  round  the  marsh 
to  the  other  side ;  and  theve  wait  till  I  rejoin  you.” 

“  And  you,”  answered  the  other :  “  surely  you  are 
not  thinking  of  one  of  your  mad  but  gallant  exploits 
this  morning ;  surely  you  are  not  rash  enough  to  go 
forward  ?  ” 

“  Leave  that  to  me,”  answered  O’Hogan  laughing. 
“  As  you  yourself  say,  I  am  general  here,  my  lord  ; 
so  take  my  word  of  command  for  the  present. 
Right  about  wheel,  and  away !  ”  And,  with  that,  he 
gave  the  spur  to  his  nag  and  dashed  forward ;  while 
his  companions,  after  watching  him  for  a  moment, 
galloped  olf  in  the  opposite  direction,  so  as  to  get 
round  the  swamp,  and  put  themselves  at  a  safe  dis¬ 
tance  from  General  Tettau  and  his  army. 

Meanwhile  the  bold  Rapparee  captain  tore  over 
the  moorland,  not,  however,  directly  forward,  but 
obliquely  down  to  the  verge  of  the  swamp ;  and,  as 


140 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


he  came  opposite  the  flank  of  the  column,  halted, 
and  coolly  commenced  to  count  the  number  of  their 
cannon,  and  to  estimate  the  strength  of  the  enemy. 
It  seemed  to  tickle  their  fancy  mightily  that  a 
single  man  should  thus  put  himself  in  such  danger¬ 
ous  proximity  to  them,  with  a  broad  marsh  behind 
him ;  for  in  a  few  moments,  with  a  shout  of  laugh¬ 
ter,  an  officer  and  about  a  dozen  men  dashed  out 
from  the  regiment  of  blue  dragoons,  and  came  at  a 
thundering  pace  across  the  moor  towards  O’Hogan. 
But  they  little  knew  the  man  they  had  to  deal  with. 
The  Rapparee,  after  finishing  Ins  observations, 
turned  his  nag  to  the  marsh,  —  both  horse  and  rider 
knew  it  well,  —  and  began  to  flit  over  it  with  the 
lightness  of  a  plover.  The  pursuers  at  length  came 
down ;  and,  plashing  heavily  into  the  marsh,  there 
soon  stuck  and  floundered  up  to  their  saddle-girths, 
all  except  their  captain,  who  seemed  to  be  more 
accustomed  to  the  thing,  and  who  now  led  his 
horse  warily  after  O’Hogan.  The  latter  at  length 
gained  a  broad,  dry  spot  towards  the  centre  of  the 
swamp,  and  there,  turning  round  his  broad-chested 
nag,  coolly  waited  the  coming  of  his  foe,  who,  after 
a  few  mishaps  and  several  volleys  of  outlandish 
oaths,  also  gained  the  verge  of  the  dry  space.  They 
were  now  within  pistobshot,  the  Dutch  captain 
advancing  cautiously  on  his  heavy  steed. 

“Surrender,  base  hund!”  shouted  the  latter,  as 
he  drew  his  long  pistols  from  the  holsters,  and 
presented  them  at  O’Hogan. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


141 


“  Ha,  ha !  ”  answered  the  Rapparee  :  “  you’ll  have 
to  take  me  first,  mynheer.  Come  on,  then,  for  the 
honor  of  Vaterland,  old  beer-swiller,  and  try  your¬ 
self  against  the  four  bones  of  an  Irishman.” 

For  answer,  the  bullets  from  the  two  pistols  went 
whistling,  one  after  the  other,  by  O’Hogan’s  ear. 

“Row,  on  the  good  faith  of  a  man,”  exclaimed 
O’Hogan,  “I  would  rather,  where  there  are  only 
two  of  us,  that  you  had  stuck  to  the  sword  alone  to 
decide  between  us,  like  a  gentleman  !  ”  And,  with 
that,  he  drew  his  long  weapon  from  its  sheath,  and 
with  his  dark  brows  knit,  and  eyes  flashing,  sat 
prepared  for  the  onset  of  the  Dutchman. 

“  May  de  deevil  seize  thee  for  a  damned  Rappa¬ 
ree  schelm !  ”  roared  the  latter,  as  he  thundered 
down  upon  O’Hogan,  intending  to  ride  over  him, 
horse  and  man,  with  his  heavy  charger. 

But  O’Hogan  expected  this,  and  was  prepared  for 
it.  Swerving  his  nag  nimbly  to  one  side,  he  allowed 
the  Dutchman  to  rush  by ;  and  as  he  passed,  after 
parrying  his  cut,  sti’uck  him  on  the  corselet,  between 
the  shoulders,  with  a  force  that  bent  him  forward 
on  the  flying  mane  of  his  steed.  The  Dutchman, 
however,  recovered  himself,  and  came  on  gallantly 
once  more. 

“  I  could  shoot  you  like  a  dog,”  said  O’Hogan, 
tapping  his  holster  sternly  with  his  left  hand;  “but 
no,  I  believe  you  to  be  a  brave  man  after  all.  Come 
on,  then,  closer,  closer,  and  let  the  good  sword  settle 
it  between  us.” 


142 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


In  a  moment  the  bright  weapons  crossed,  and 
clashed  against  each  other,  striking  sparks  of  tire 
by  their  deadly  contact;  the  horses  swerved  round 
and  round ;  again  the  swords  clashed,  till  at  length 
the  long  blade  of  the  Rapparee  went  sheer  through 
the  side  of  the  ill-fated  Dutchman,  who  dropped 
from  his  charger  with  a  heavy  thud  upon  the  boggy 
sward  beneath.  Tettau  had  watched  the  combat 
keenly ;  for,  in  a  few  moments  after  his  officer  fell, 
the  heavy  boom  of  a  cannon  tore  through  the  clear 
morning  air,  and  the  shot,  intended  for  O’Hogan, 
struck,  instead,  the  poor  Dutchman’s  charger  upon 
the  spine,  and  hurled  it  a  shattered  mass  beside  the 
body  of  its  dying  master. 

O’Hogan,  with  a  grim  smile,  shook  his  gory 
sword  at  the  hostile  army,  tiien  turned  his  steed, 
and  flitted  once  more  across  the  swamp,  beyond  the 
range  of  their  cannon-shot. 


CHAPTER  n. 

IN  WHICH  SAESFIELD  ARRIVES  NEAR  THE  GATE  OF  TIR-N-AN- 
OGE,  AND  HEARS  A  ROMANCE  FROM  BROWN  FOOT.  —  CON¬ 
TAINING  ALSO  THE  ADVENTEEE  OF  THE  GRAY  KNIGHt’s 
CHAMBER. 

There  was  a  little  book  called  “The  History  of 
the  Irish  Rogues  and  Rapparees,”  which  the  author 
happened  to  read  in  his  boyhood,  but  on  whichj 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LI  SB  LOOM. 


143 


happily  for  himself,  he  was  not  left  dependent  for 
information  conceiming  the  individuals  whose  lives 
were  misrepresented  therein.  The  book  had  a  very 
extensive  circulation  among  the  peasantry  ;  and  it 
is  astonishing  the  number  of  opinions  it  influenced 
regarding  the  history  of  the  times  immediately 
following  the  Williamite  conquest  of  this  land,  and 
the  actions  of  the  gallant  men  who  fought  for 
their  homes  and  their  religion  against  the  psalm- 
twanging,  snivelling,  and  murderous  undertakers, 
and  against  the'  penal  laws  then  in  the  flush  and 
first  swing  of  their  gory  vigor  and  brutality.  The 
sorry-spirited  sinner  who  wrote  the  book  represents 
the  Rapparees  as  a  pack  of  ferocious  bogtrotters, 
pickpockets,  highwaymen,  and  murderers  ;  whereas, 
on  the  contrary,  if  the  truth  were  known,  they  were 
a  stout  peasantry,  led  on  by  their  hereditary  cap¬ 
tains,  gallant  and  noble  gentlemen,  who,  when  dis¬ 
possessed  of  their  lands  by  the  conqueror,  took  to 
the  sword  and  gun  as  their  only  chance  of  existence, 
and  on  many  a  hill-side,  and  in  the  depths  of  many 
a  forest  and  pass,  poured  out  their  life-blood  trying 
to  regain  their  ancient  patrimonies,  or,  at  least, 
endeavoring  to  wreak  honorable  vengeance  upon 
the  robbers  who  held  them  in  their  iron  grasp.  In 
England,  the  free-born  Saxon  thanes,  who  took  to 
the  woods  after  the  Norman  conquest,  are  celebrated 
in  many  a  stirring  lay,  and  the  actions  of  the  brave 
Spanish  hidalgoes,  who  fought  against  the  Moors, 
sung  in  innumerable  melodious  ballads;  but  the 


144 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


poor  Irish  gentlemen,  who  shed  their  blood  in  the 
Williamite  wars,  are  only  vilified  and  misrepresent¬ 
ed,  though  they  were  not  a  whit  less  gallant,  hardy, 
or  chivalrous  than  the  Cids  of  Spain  or  the  Robin 
Hoods  of  the  sister  island.  With  this  preamble, 
which  we  hope  the  reader  will  excuse,  we  will  now 
resume  our  story. 

O’Hogan,  whose  nag  seemed  to  know  by  instinct 
the  firm  parts  of  the  swamp,  was  not  long  in  gaining 
the  dry  and  I’ising  country  to  the  south,  where,  on  a 
green  knoll  beneath  a  clump  of  trees,  he  rejoined 
his  companions,  who  had  .thence  watched  with 
anxious  hearts  the  issue  of  the  combat. 

“  Ha !  you  are  back  at  last,”  said  the  elder  horse¬ 
man,  as  O’Hogan  rode  up.  “You  had  a  narrow 
escape,  captain ;  but,  on  the  good  faith  of  a  soldier, 
it  was  a  brave  exploit,  though  a  little  hair-brained 
for  a  man  of  my  tem2:»erament.” 

“  You  are  not  always  in  the  same  mood,  then,  my 
lord,”  answered  O’Hogan,  laughing ;  “for  it  was  only 
last  year  I  saw  you  perform  an  exploit  equal  in 
daring  to  a  thousand  of  mine  just  now.  I  did  it, 
however,  to  show  you  the  manner  in  which  Tettau 
will  be  welcomed  by  the  bold  Rapparees  of  Kerry. 
It  was  not  my  first  meeting  with  the  Dutch  blue¬ 
jackets  ;  and  I  hope  to  make  them  know  me  better 
before  the  war  is  over.” 

“  I  remember  your  first  meeting  with  them  well,” 
remarked  Tibbot  Burke.  “  My  lord,  if  I  don’t  mis¬ 
take,  you  must  recollect  it  too.  It  was  at  the  wo- 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LI  SB  LOOM. 


145 


ful  field  of  Aughrim,  and  on  the  shoulder  of  Kilcorn- 
modan  Hill,”  continued  he,  as  they  rode  forward 
again.  “  O’Hogan  and  I  ’were  beyond  the  brow  of 
the  height,  at  the  head  of  the  irregular  Rappai-ee 
horse,  when  the  first  troop  of  blue  dragoons  swept 
past  us,  down  on  the  flying  Irish  infantry,  after  St. 
Ruth’s  fall.  We  gave  them  but  little  time  to  play 
their  sabres ;  for  we  swept,  in  turn,  down  upon  their 
rear  with  a  clatter  and  a  crash  that  they,  too,  will 
not  forget.” 

“  I  also  shall  not  forget  it,”  said  their  companion, 
wdth  a  sad  smile  ;  “  for  that  gallant  charge  aided  me 
well  in  saving  the  remnant  of  our  broken  army.” 

“  Who  is  he  at  all  ?  ”  muttered  Cus  Russid  to  him¬ 
self,  as  he  rode  close  behind,  listening  to  the  conver¬ 
sation.  “  Be  this  blessed  stick !  ”  continued  he,  laying 
his  hand  upon  the  huge  pummel  of  the  dragoon 
saddle,  in  which  he  sat  perched  like  a  hawk,  “  but 
he  talks  as  big  as  if  he  was  the  greatest  gineral  on 
the  univarsal  earth.”  He  was  not  left  long  in 
^  doubt. 

“  Aye,  my  brave  fellows,”  continued  the  subject 
of  his  inquiries,  “  and  I  shall  not  soon  forget  the 
brave  dash  you  both  made  at  my  side  when  we 
rattled  down  that  night  upon  the  English  convoy 
at  Ballineety.” 

“  An’  cut  them  into  mince-mate  an’  smithereens, 
bad  luck  to  their  sowls !  ”  interrupted  Cus  Russid, 
more  loudly  than  he  was  aware  of  in  his  surprise. 

“  Hononi-an-dhial !  but  ’tis  Sarsfield  himself,  an’  I 


10 


146 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


have  been  talkin’  to  him  all  the  mornin’ just  as  if  he 
was  born  a  coramerade  o’  my  own !  ” 

“  And  cut  them  into  mince-meat,  as  our  little 
friend  behind  us  observes,”  continued  Sarsfield, 
laughing  (for  it  was  he) ;  “and  destroyed  their  bag¬ 
gage  and  cannon,  —  a  thing  I  never  could  have 
done,  were  it  not  for  the  sui’e  intelligence  you  gave 
me  of  the  enemy’s  movements.  But  what  road  are 
we  taking  ?  ”  rejoined  he,  as  he  cast  his  bright  eyes 
over  a  tract  of  country,  where,  a  few  miles  in  their 
front,  an  abrupt  liill  towered  up,  with  a  calm  lake 
gleaming  in  the  sunlight  at  its  foot.  “  Now  that 
my  mission  in  the  country  is  accomplished,  and  that 
I  have  seen  what  you  can  do  in  the  rear  of  the 
enemy,  I  should  be  crossing  the  Shannon  once  more 
for  Limerick,  where,  I  fear,  I  am  sadly  wanted  at 
the  present  juncture.” 

“Your  mission  is  not  entirely  over,  my  lord,”  an¬ 
swered  O’Hogan.  “You  have  yet  to  see  the  men 
of  East  Limerick  and  the  Tipperary  borders,  and  to 
give  them  encoui’agement  by  your  presence  for  a 
day  or  two.  For  the  rest,  we  shall  guide  you 
safely  across  the  Shannon,  above  Limerick,  not 
below  it ;  which  latter  would  not  be  an  easy  task  in 
the  present  disposition  of  Ginkel’s  troops.  The 
water  you  see  beyond  is  Lough  Gur,  a  place  fre¬ 
quently  visited  by  the  foraging  parties  of  the  Eng¬ 
lish.  To  the  front,  then,  Tibbot ;  and  you.  Brown 
Foot,  fall  back  farther  to  the  rear,  and  keep  those 
black  eyes  of  yours  on  every  bush  and  thicket  ai’ound, 
for  we  must  be  carefnl.” 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISDLOOM. 


147 


In  this  order  they  soon  gained  the  shore  of 
Longh  Gur.  Riding  warily  round  tlie  foot  of  the 
hill  that  towered  above  it  to  the  north,  they  at 
length  (?ame  to  the  eastern  end  of  the  lake;  and 
there,  at  the  side  of  a  shaggy  wood,  they  dismounted, 
and  sat  down  to  regale  themselves  from  Tibbot’s 
flask  and  the  wallet  of  provisions  he  had  carried  all  ' 
the  morning  at  his  saddle-bow. 

Having  satisfied  their  hunger,  they  looked  around 
for  Cus  Russid,  whose  newly-awakened  modesty 
would  not  permit  him  to  sit  down  and  join  in  their 
noonday  meal ;  and,  after  a  little  search,  found  that 
inquisitive  individual  half-way  up  the  hill,  and 
peering  with  much  apparent  interest  into  a  hollow 
recess  between  two  bowlders  of  rock. 

“What  were  you  looking  for  at  the  rock,  Cus?” 
asked  Tibbot  of  Brown  Foot,  as  the  latter,  after 
being  recalled  to  their  resting-place*,  was  in  the 
agreeable  process  of  finishing  his  repast. 

“ Wisha,  fiaith,  if, the  truth  must  be  towld,  sir,”  ' 
^answered  Cus,  “I  was  just  sarchiu’  for  the  doore 
through  which  my  uncle,  Rody  Condon,  got  into 
Tir-n-an-Oge.  ’Tis  a  quare  story,  an’  will  make  you 
laugh,  if  I  may  make  so  bowld  as  to  tell  it.” 

“  Clear  your  throat  first  with  the  flask  before  you 
commence,  boy,”  said  Sarsfield,  smiling.  “  It  will 
enliven  your  story,  and  mayhap  enable  you  to  add 
something  of  your  own  to  the  thread.” 

“In  the  whole  barony,  there  wasn’t  a  quarer  man 
than  my  uncle  Rody,”  rejoined  Cus  Rnssid,thus  en- 


I 


148 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


couraged.  “  He  never  went  out  in  his  life  afther 
nightfall  that  he  didn’t  see  a  ghost,  —  Lord  athune 
us  an’  harum  !  —  or  a  sperrit  o’  some  kind  or  other. 
The  Headless  Man  o’  Drumdhorn  an’  himshlf  were 
ould  acquaintances;  an’,  as  for  the  Green  Woman  o’ 
Tiernan’s  Ford  an’  he,  they  were  like  brother  an’ 
sisther.  The  Good  People  —  wid  respect  I purnounce 
their  name  this  blessed  day — loved  him  as  if  they 
were  his  born  childher ;  an’  good  raison  they  ought, 
for  he  never  went  out  .on  a  jouimey  high  or  low 
idout  takin’  a  cruiskeen  o’  whiskey  in  one  pocket  of 
his  cothamore,  an’  a  drinkin’-horn  in  the  other,  to 
thrate  them,  the  crathures,  when  cowld  or  thirsty. 
Many  a  drinkin’-bout  they  had  together  in  the  ould 
fourths  an’  castles  by  the  lake,  endin’  every  one  o’ 
them  in  their  promisin’  to  take  him  to  Tir-n-an-Oge, 
—  for  he  was  morthial  aiger  to  get  a  glimpse  o’  the 
doins  there, —  an’  then  puttin’  him  to  sleep  an’ 
stalin’  the  whiskey,  —  small  blame  to  them  for  that, 
anyhow ! 

“  Well,  at  any  rate,  one  Novimber  eve,  as  he  was 
cornin’  home  from  Brulf,  after  sellin’  four  pigs  of  his 
agin  the  winther,  he  sat  down  beyant  there  by  the 
lake,  an’  drew  out  his  cruiskeen  an’  dhrinkin’-horn 
to  relieve  himself  from  the  cowld ;  for  ’twas  a  frosty 
night.  Afther,  maybe,  takin’  about  twice  the  full 
o’  the  horn,  he  saw  cornin’  crass  the  hill  towards  him 
a  little  ould  atomy  of  a  man,  not  much  higher  than 
my  knee,  an’  all  dhressed  in  gray  to  the  very  cau- 
been  upon  his  head. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIS  BLOOM. 


149 


“‘Wisha,  much  good  may  id  do  you,  that  same 
cruiskeen,  Rody !  ’  said  the  little  man,  cornin’  down, 
an’  plantin’  himself  fornint  my  uncle  on  the  grass. 
‘  Would  you  like  to  see  Tir-n-an-Oge  to-night  ?  ’ 

“‘You  know  I  would,  Traneen  Glas,’  said  my 
uncle  (for  they  seemed  to  be  ould  friends);  ‘an’ 
many  is  the  time,  you  schamer,  you  dissaved  me  on 
the  head  o’  seein’  it  too.  But  a  cead  mille  failthe 
for  all  that,  Traneen  !  Rody  Condon  isn’t  the  man 
to  give  a  frind  the  cowld  showldher  while  there’s  a 
sup  in  the  cruiskeen.  Here  is  health  an’  happiness, 
an’  may  the  wheels  of  our  carriages  rowl  on  pave¬ 
ments  o’  diamond !  ’ 

“‘The  same  to  you,  Rody,’  said  Traneen  Glas, 
afther  he  had  emptied  the  dhrinkin’-horn  in  his 
turn.  ‘  ’Tis  a  rale  sweet  dhrop,  anyhow.  An’  now 
let  us  be  off  to  Tir-n-an-Oge.’ 

“‘The  devil  resave  the  morsel  of  us  will  stir  out 
o’  this  till  we  empty  the  cruiskeen  at  any  rate,’  said 
my  uncle;  an’  with  that  they  tackled  to,  an’  never 
•  stopped  nor  stayed  till  all  the  whiskey  was  gone. 

“The  minnit  the  last  dhrop  Avas  SAvalloAved,  Tran¬ 
een  Glas  clapped  his  hands  together  Avith  a  sound 
like  tundher.  Then  a  Avhirlwind  came  roarin’  up 
from  the  lake ;  an’,  si)innin’  my  uncle  round  an’  round, 
it  drove  him  like  a  cannon-ball  in  through  a  great 
doore  that  opened  bethune  the  rocks  beyant  there. 
It  took  aAvay  his  breath  an’  eye-sight,  it  was  so  loud 
an’  terrible;  but  at  last  it  ceased,  an’  my  uncle 
looked  around  an’  found  himself  standin’  on  the 


150 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


verge  of  a  great  green  forest,  in  the  midst  of  the 
most  beautiful  counthry  the  sun  ever  shone  upon. 
‘  ’Tis  Tir-n-an-Oge  every  inch  of  it,’  said  my 
uncle,  as  he  went  on  an’  on  through  the  forest,  till 
at  last  he  came  to  a  great  meadow.  All  over  this 
meadow  were  ranged  thousands  upon  thousands  of 
knights  on  horesback,  their  great  spears  stuck  in  the 
ground  beside  them,  their  hands  upon  their  soord- 
hilts  an’  their  armor  glittherin’ ;  but  all  seemed  to 
be  asleep,  an’  as  still  an’  motionless  as  the  ould 
figures  upon  the  tombstones  in  _  Kilmallock.  At 
their  head  sat  a  great  lord  all  in  goolden  armor,  with 
his  hand  also  upon  the  dazzlin’  handle  of  his  soord. 

“  ‘  Mille  gloria !  if  it  isn’t  Garodh  Earla  an’  his 
knights  I’m  lookin’  upon !  ’  said  my  uncle.  The 
mighty  earl  awoke  at  the  voice. 

“.‘Is  the  hour  come,  Rody  Condon?’  said  he,  in 
a  great  voice  that  went  echoin’  through  the  forest ; 
an’  with  that  he  half  dhrew  his  soord  from  the  scab¬ 
bard. 

“‘Wisha,  faith,  my  lord,  ’tis  nearly  come!”  an¬ 
swered  my  uncle ;  ‘  for  them  bloody  undhertakers 
are  spilin’  an’  robbin’  in  the  worldt  above,  an’  mur- 
therin’  us  all  like  wild  bastes.  But  wait  till  I  come 
back  from  seein’  my  frinds,  an’  thin,  if  you  considher 
it  time,  my  sowl  to  glory  if  I  don’t  show  you  the 
way  out ;  for  the  Sassenachs  want  a  taste  of  some 
o’  them  long  soords  badly  1  ’ 

“With  that  my  uncle  passed  on — bad  scran  to 
him !  for  if  he  answered  an’  said  the  hour  was  come, 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


151 


Garodh  Earla  an’  all  liis  knights  would  be  back  here 
in  the  twinklin’  of  an  eye,  an’  ’tis  short  work  they’d 
make  o’  the  Sassenachs  if  they  came.  On  an’  on 
he  went,  till  in  the  bottom  of  a  green  valley  he 
came  fornint  a  grand  house ;  an’  his  heart  leapt 
with  joy  when  he  heard  the  people  inside  rattlin’ 
up  ‘Garryowen’  with  a  chorus  that  seemed  to 
shake  the  very  rafthers. 

“  ‘  Be  this  stick !  ’  said  he,  ‘  but  they  seem  to  be 
refreshin’  themselves  inside  anyhow.  I’ll  just  step 
in,  an’  p’rhaps  it’s  a  cead  mille  failthe  I’d  get  to  Tir- 
n-an-Oge  from  some  one  !  ’ 

“  He  did  so ;  an’  the  first  person  he  saw  inside  Avas 
his  cousin,  Johnnie  Harty,  who,  with  a  number  of  his 
commerades  that  my  uncle  knew  as  ould  frinds,  sat 
around  a  table  o’  diamond  stone  regalin’  themselves 
on  metheglin. 

“  ‘  Wisha  !  a  thousand  welcomes  to  Tir-n-an-Oge, 
Rody,’  said  his  cousin.  ‘  Here,  take  a  jorum  o’  this 
to  refresh  yourself,  an’  then  p’raps  you’d  tell  us 
some  news  from  the  worldt  above.’ 

“  ‘  I’ll  tell  you  one  thing,’  said  my  uncle,  afther 
emptying  the  cup,  ‘this  is  a*sweet  drink  sure  enough, 
an’  p’raps  fit  for  yourselves ;  but,  if  you  don’t  give  me 
somethin’  stronger  to  wet  my  windpipe  on  this 
blessed  Novimber  night.  I’ll  die  with  the  druth. 
I’d  rather  have  one  glass  o’  Tom  Fraher’s  potheen 
than  a  whole  gallon  o’  this  Avake  thrash !  ’ 

“‘Well,’  said  his  cousin,  ‘  we  can  give  you  noth¬ 
in’  stronger  at  present,  Rody;  but  haven’t  you  any 
neAvs  ? 


152 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIS  BLOOM. 


“‘Devil  a  much,’  said  my  uncle,  ‘  an’  so  I’ll  let  it 
alone  till  I  hear  what  kind  of  a  counthry  this  is  to 
live  in  ;  for  I  mane  to  come  an’  settle  here  as  soon 
as  I  can,  if  it  shuits  me,  which  I  think  it  will  to  a  T.’ 

‘“’Tis  a  wondherful  place,’  answered  Johnnie, 
‘  The  first  place  you  saw  belongs  to  Garodh  Earla, 
this  to  us,  an’  that  beyant  there  to  the  Fenians  of 
Erinn.  Come,  boys,  let  us  show  the  place  to  my 
cousin,  Rody  Condon.’ 

“With  that  they  all  stood  up,  an’  conducted 
Rody  beyant  their  own  boundary  into  another  part, 
where  he  saw  all  the  Fenians  of  Erinn  encamped 
upon  a  hill ;  some  engaged  in  Avrestlin’  matches,  an’ 
bouts  with  soords  an’  all  that,  an’  some  preparing  for 
the  chase  of  a  great  stag  that  kept  the  forest  beneath. 

“  ‘  Where’s  Cuchullin  ?  ’  asked  Rody. 

“  ‘  There  he’s  over  at  the  edge  of  the  camp  leanin’ 
on  his  spear,’  answered  his  cousin;  ‘an’  there  is 
Cui’igh  MacDaire  standin’  beside  him.  They’re  the 
best  frinds  now,  although  in  the  worldt  above  they 
often  had  a  rattlin’  fight  about  the  beautiful  Blanaid, 
who  lives  now  over  there  in  that  bright  palace 
above  the  stream.’ 

“‘Wisha!  faith  then,’  said  Rody, ‘’tis  little  she 
disarved  a  palace  for  lavin’  her  lawful  husband, 
Curigh,  to  fly  with  Cuchullin.  If  things  are  carried 
on  in  this  way,  the  devil  a  fut  o’  me  will  stay  here 
for  one.  Haven’t  ye  a  single  dhrop  o’  the  crathur 
to  wet  a  poor  fellow’s  whistle  afther  his  long 
journey  ? ’ 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


153 


“  ‘Not  a  taste  but  metheglin,’  they  all  answered. 

“‘Well,  that  settles  the  question,’  said  Rody, 
givin’  his  cuthamore  a  shake.  ‘Dang  the  bit  o’  rae, 
will  ever  stay  in  a  counthry  where  there  isn’t  a 
dhrop  o’  potlieen  to  be  had  for  love  or  money.’ 

“The  word  was  scarcely  out  of  his  mouth  when 
the  Avhirlwind  caught  him  up  again,  an’  he  was 
tossed  an’  tumbled  an’  rowld  between  its  roarin’ 
wings  out  upon  the  very  spot  where  he  had  sat 
down  some  time  before  to  refresh  himself.  He  felt 
for  his  cruiskeen,  but  found  it  empty. 

“  ‘  Well,’  said  he,  as  he  stood  up  an’  began  to  walk 
home,  ‘the  fairies  must  have  played  a  thrick  on  me, 
—  bad  luck  to  Traneen  Glas,  that  little  imp  o’  per¬ 
dition  !  He  an’  his  commerades  drank  what  was  in 
the  cruiskeen,  but  it  is  a  long  time  till  they  catch 
me  again  on  Novimber  night.’ 

“An’  so  that,  ray  lord,  is  what  happened  to  my 
uncle,”  concluded  Cus  Russid ;  “  but  wait  till  I  find 
out  the  door  into  Tir-n-an-Oge,  an’  once  set  my 
eyes  on  Garodh  Earla  an’  his  mighty  warriors,  if  ” - 

He  was  not  allowed  to  finish  his  sentence;  for  in 
an  instant  there  was  a  rush  from  the  trees  behind 
them,  and,  before  they  could  turn  or  gain  their  feet, 
poor  Cus  and  his  companions  were  seized  by  a  num¬ 
ber  of  men,  disarmed  and  pinioned,  and,  with  horse¬ 
cloths  thrown  over  their  faces,  dragged  through 
the  wood  despite  their  struggles,  and  at  length 
thrown  rudely  into  a  confined  place  like  a  cavern, 
where,  when  they  succeeded  in  shaking  the  rough 


154 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


cloths  from  before  their  eyes,  they  endeavored  to 
look  round,  but  found  themselves  in  total  darkness. 
Tibbot,  who  happened  to  be  the  last  thrust  in,  put 
out  his  hand,  as  well  as  he  could,  to  feel  for  some 
support,  and  rested  it  against,  what  seemed  to  him,  a 
wall  composed  of  huge  stones  placed  one  upon  the 
other  in  the  manner  of  those  cyclopean  structures, 
some  of  which  are  yet  found  in  the  country. 
Through  a  chink  between  two  of  these  blocks  of 
stone,  a  low,  sharp  voice  now  grated  on  his  ear,  like 
the  hiss  of  a  serpent :  — 

“  Remember  Ellie  Connell,  base  Rapparee  dog,” 
said  the  voice  in  accents  that  Tibbot  knew  but  too 
well,  “  and  remember  also  how  you  crossed  my  path 
when  it  led  to  her  love.  Vengeance  is  in  my  hand 
at  last ;  and,  as  sure  as  there  is  a  hell  beneath  you, 
you  and  your  companions  shall  swing  from  the  best 
branch  in  the  wood  before  set  of  sun.” 

“Try  it,”  answered  Tibbot,  as  he  wrenched  the 
cords  that  bound  his  arms  asunder.  Ha !  my  arms 
are  now  free ;  and,  when  you  come  for  us,  you  will 
find  us  hard  to  take.  Miscreant  undertaker!  you 
will  pay  dearly  for  this,  if  you  come  within  reach 
of  me,  even  as  I  now  stand  unarmed.” 

“  Heed  him  not,  Tibbot,”  said  O’Hogan,  creeping 
over  to  his  lieutenant,  in  order  to  get  his  arms  also 
unbound.  “  Gideon  Grimes,”  he  continued,  as  he 
felt  his  arms  free,  “  I  was  often  in  a  worse  strait 
than  this,  and  trust  I  shall  live  to  pay  you  back  the 
deep  debt  I  owe  you.” 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


155 


“  Think  of  it  not,”  answered  Gideon,  in  a  mocking 
voice  througli  the  chink.  “Think  only  that  you  are 
in  safe  custody  here ;  that  your  niece  is  safe  under 
lock  and  key  in  Lisbloom  ;  that  my  vengeance  is  in 
high  train  at  last,  and  that  you  are  to  be  hung  this 
eventide  as  liigh  as  Hainan,  for  I  have  sent  for  the 
ropes  that  are  to  settle  all  debts  between  us.”  And, 
wdth  that,  they  heard  his  retreating  step  as  though 
he  were  issuing  from  an  outer  chamber  of  the  struc¬ 
ture  in  which  they  were  confined. 

“  My  lord,”  said  OTIogan,  in  a  low  voice,  as  he 
unbound  Sarsfield’s  arms,  “I  am  sorry  that  this 
mishap  has  befallen  us,  not  for  my  own  sake,  but 
for  yom-s.  However,  yonder  ruffian  knows  you  not. 
If  he  did,  he  would  have  seemed  more  glad  of  his 
prize.  Trust  to  me  to  find  some  plan  of  escape 
before  it  comes  to  the  worst.” 

“We  will  trust  to  our  arms,  and  these  small 
bowlders  of  rock  beneath  our  feet,  if  it  come  to 
that,”  returned  Sarsfield,  smiling  grimly  in  the 
darkness.  “By  my  faith!  an  they  come  to  take  us 
forth,  we  can  at  least  dash  out  some  of  their  brains, 
and  then  make  a  rush  for  our  freedom.” 

During  all  this,  Cus  Russid,  who  had  slipped 
through  his  noose,  like  an  eel,  had  been  groping 
about  in  the  interior  of  their  place  of  durance. 
Far  in,  in  -udiat  seemed  to  be  an  inner  chamber  of 
their  prison,  he  had  discovered  a  round  hole  cut 
downward  through  a  huge  sandstone  flag  that 
formed  the  side  of  the  roof.  Through  this  hole, 


156 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


after  a  great  deal  of  ingenious  screwing,  he  had  at 
length  succeeded  in  protruding  his  black  head. 
After  looking  out  between  the  stems  of  the  ferns 
that  shaded  the  aperture,  he  carefully  withdrew  his 
head  and  returned  to  his  companions.  He  had 
seen  no  pleasant  sight. 

“Captain,”  he  said,  as  he  crept  up  to  where 
O’Hogan  was  still  standing,  “  there  is  a  chink  in  the 
roof  inside  there,  just  large  enough  for  my  head. 
I  looked  out  through  it,  an’  saw  about  twenty  men 
undher  an  oak  tree  wdth  Black  Gideon  in  their 
midst,  an’  they  settlin’  ropes,  like  hangmen,  to  four  o’ 
the  strongest  branches  overhead.  Oh,  wirra,  wirra ! 
what’ll  become  of  us  ?  ” 

“Ha!”  exclaimed  O’Hogan,  “  did  you  see  where 
their  horses  were,  Cus  ?  ” 

“Yes,  sir,”  answered  Cus:  “they  were  all  grazin’ 
in  a  little  hollow  at  the  foot  of  a  small  lios  in  the 
wood.” 

“Now,”  rejoined  O’Hogan,  as  if  communing^ with 
himself,,  “  I  begin  to  recollect  where  we  are.  But 
we  can  soon  settle  that  question,”  he  continued,  as 
with  a  sudden  start  he  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket, 
drew  out  a  tinder-box,  and  struck  a  light.  The 
blaze  of  the  burning  match  fell  diraly  upon  the 
opposite  wall,  and  there  showed  the  half-obliterated 
figure  of  a  knight  carved  in  the  rough  stone. 

“  By  the  blood  of  my  body,  my  lord  general  1  ” 
exclaimed  the  brave  Rapparee,  the  moment  Ins  eye 
fell  upon  the  weird-looking  and  rude  effigy,  “but 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


157 


we  are  more  fortunate  than  I  thought.  We  are  iu 
the  Gray  Knight’s  Chamber,  a  place  I  know  well. 
Black  Gideon,  when  he  thrust  us  in,  did  not  know 
how  many  doors  open  from  it,  and  what  a  treasure 
is  hid  there.  Follow  me,  all;  for  there  is  not  a 
moment  to  he  lost.”  With  that,  he  lit  another 
match,  and  led  the  way  into  the  inner  chamber. 
Here  he  pulled  away  a  tall,  thin  flag  that  seemed 
to  fit  into  the  side-wall,  and  discovered  the  entrance 
to  another  chamber.  On  entering  the  lattei’,  they 
found  its  dry  floor  strewn  with  weapons  of  all  kinds 
from  the  old  matchlocks  and  battleaxes  of  Queen 
Elizabeth’s  time  to  the  musketoons,  half-pikes,  and 
swords  used  in  the  days  of  the  second  Charles. 

“Now,  general,”  said  O’Hogan,  “choose  your 
weapon.  As  for  me,  I  will  have  this  sword,”  and  he 
took  up  a  huge,  rusty  one  that  rested  against  the 
wall.  “  You,  too,  Tibbot.  You,  Cus,  take  a  short 
pike,  and  that  dagger  lying  at  your  feet.  You  will 
mayhap  want  the  latter  in  the  service  you  are  about 
to  perform.  Attend  to  me,  boy.  From  this  place 
there  are  two  underground  passages,  —  one  from  this 
very  chamber,  that  leads  to  the  Uos,  under  which 
you  saw  the  horses  grazing,  —  see !  here  it  is,”  and  he 
removed  a  sheaf  of  pikes  from  the  wall,  showing 
behind  a  low  and  narrow  passage,  —  “  the  other  is 
from  the  chamber  outside.” 

“  I  know  it,  captain,”  interrupted  Cus.  “  It  lades  to 
the  other  Uos^  in  the  very  thick  o’  the  wood.  I  went 
through  it  twenty  times.  But  I  didn’t  know  this 
one,” 


158 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


“Very  well,”  rejoined  O’Hogan.  “You  are  to 
escape  through  that  passage  when  Gideon  and  his 
men  come  in  for  us.  You  will  go  through  it  like  a 
weazel,  while  we  get  out  through  this  passage,  seize 
three  horses  outside,  and  then  ride  for  our  lives.  Be 
sure  to  make  a  good  noise,  to  draw  Gideon  and  his 
ruffians  after  you ;  and,  if  one  of  them  should  over¬ 
take  you  at  the  far-off  turn  of  the  passage,  you  know 
the  use  of  half-a-dozen  inches  of  cold  steel.  Once 
you  reach  Lios  na  Cummer,  it  will  be  easy  for  you 
to  esca23e  through  the  wodds.  We  are  going  to 
Glenurra  Castle,  where  you  can  rejoin  us.” 

“Never  fear  me,  ca2)tain,”  exclaimed  Cus  Russid. 
“  If  one  o’  them  overtakes  me  afore  I  reach  the  lios 
I’ll  plant  this  athunc  liis  ribs.  But,  clmrp  an  dhonl! 
I  hear  them  coming.  Give  me  a  couple  o’  matches, 
captain.  There,  that’ll  do,”  and  he  crejDt  out  into 
the  second  chamber,  and  replaced  the  stone  against 
the  aperture,  thus  shutting  out  his  companions  from 
the  observation  of  Gideon  and  his  myrmidons.  He 
now  i^ulled  away  the  slab  that  covered  the  main 
outlet,  and  let  it  fall  with  a  loud  crash  on  the  stony 
floor.  At  the  same  moment,  Gideon  and  most  of  his 
men  came  to  the  outer  entrance,  all  with  brands  of 
lighted  bog-deal  in  their  left  hands,  —  their  pistols  in 
the  right.  Every  thing  fell  out  just  as  O’Hogan  had 
jolanned.  He  and  Tibbot  and  Sarsfield  gained  the 
open  air  at  length,  suddenly  fell  upon  and  slew  the 
three  men  left  outside  to  guard  the  horses,  and  were 
in  a  moment  galloping  away  with  the  speed  of  the 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


159 


wind  towards  Glenurra  Castle.  Cus  Russid  treaded 
the  passage  with  the  agility  of  a  fox,  waited  at  the 
turn  mentioned  by  O’Hogan,  and,  planting  his  dag¬ 
ger,  as  he  had  promised,  between  the  ribs  of  the 
first  of  his  pursuers  that  came  up,  gained  the  wood 
outside,  and  soon  put  several  good  miles  between 
himself  and  Black  Gideon. 

O’Hogan  intended  to  meet  at  Glenurra  Castle 
young  Hugh  O’Ryan,  another  and  one  of  the 
bravest  of  his  lieutenants.  But  when  at  sunset 
they  walked  into  the  hall  of  that  ancient  stronghold, 
they  were  welcomed  to  a  sad  scene.  On  a  huge 
oaken  table,  in  the  midst  of  the  great  hall,  lay  the 
dead  body  of  poor  Hugh,  surrounded  by  his  weep¬ 
ing  friends.  As  the  three  entered,  the  caoine^  or 
death-song,  was  about  to  commence;  so  they  sat 
down,  according  to  custom,  upon  seats  provided  for 
them  by  one  of  the  domestics,  and,  without  a  word, 
listened  to  the  wild  and  heart-piercing  song.  A 
beautiful  young  girl,  with  her  long  black  hair 
streaming  in  wild  disorder  over  her  shoulders,  stood 
at  the  head,  and  began  the  lament ;  in  the  distress¬ 
fully  plaintive  burthen  of  which  she  was  joined  by 
all  the  females  in  the  room.  The  song  went  on 
somewhat  like  the  following,  slowly  and  moui-n- 
fully:- 

“  The  woods  of  Drumlory 
Are  greenest  and  fairest, 

And  flowers  in  gay  glory 
Bloom  there  of  the  rarest : 


160 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


They’ll  deck  without  numher 
A  red  grave  and  narrow, 

Where  he’ll  sleep  his  last  slumber, 
Young  Hugh  of  Glenurra ! 

The  canavaun’s  blooming 
Like  snow  on  the  marish, 

The  autumn  is  coming, 

The  summer  flowers  perish  ; 

And,  though  love  smiles  all  gladness. 
He’s  left  me  in  sorrow. 

To  mourn  in  my  madness. 

Young  Hugh  of  Glenurra  ! 

Sweet  love  filled  forever 
His  kind  words  and  glances  ; 

Light  foot  there  was  never 
Like  his  in  the  dances, 

By  forest  or  fountain. 

In  goal  on  the  curragh, 

Or  chase  on  the  mountain, 

Young  Hugh  of  Glenurra  ! 

When  cannons  did  rattle. 

And  trumpets  brayed  loudly. 

In  the  grim  van  of  battle 

His  long  plume  waved  proudly  : 

As  the  bolts  from  the  bowmen, 

Or  share  through  the  furrow. 

He  tore  through  the  foemen. 

Young  Hugh  of  Glenurra  ! 

Alas  !  when  we  parted 
That  morn  in  the  hollow, 

Why  staid  I  faint-hearted  1 
Why  ne’er  did  I  follow. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


161 


To  fight  by  his  side  there, 

The  red  battle  thorough, 

And  die  when  he  died  there  ? 

Young  Hugh  of  Glenurra ! 

Ah,  woe  is  me  !  woe  is  me  ! 

Love  cannot  wake  him : 

Woe  is  me  !  woe  is  me  ! 

Grief  cannot  make  him 
Quit,  to  embrace  me. 

This  red  couch  of  sorrow, 

Where  soon  they  shall  place  me 
By  Hugh  of  Glenurra." 

“It  is  Marion  Creagh,  the  betrothed  wife  of  poor 
Hugh,”  whispered  O’Hogan,  as  he  directed  Sarsfield’s 
attention  to  the  young  girl  who  had  sung  the 
lament.  “  But  here  comes  Hugh’s  father,  Owen 
O’Ryan,  to  welcome  us.  God  help  him !  he  has  a 
sad  welcome  on  his  war-worn  face.  We  shall  now 
learn  all  about  the  death  of  my  poor  lieutenant.” 


CHAPTEE  III. 

IN  WHICH  EDMOND  OP  THE  HILL  APPEARS  UPON  THE  SCENE, 
AND  CUS  RUSSID  AGAIN  BRINGS  NEWS  OP  ELLIE  CONNELL  ; 
SHOWING  ALSO  HOW  SARSPIELD  AND  THE  RAPPAREE  CAP¬ 
TAINS  MARCH  TO  MEET  THEIR  POES  AT  THE  BRIDGE  OP 
TERN, 

Owen  O’Ryan,  the  father  of  the  young  Rapparee 
officer  who  lay  stark  upon  the  table,  was  a  man  of 

about  fourscore  years  of  age,  somewhat  low  of 

11 


16*2 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


Stature,  with  a  white  beard  descending  upon  a  chest 
of  unusual  prominence,  and  with  a  pair  of  shoulders 
so  broad  that  they  almost  seemed  to  fill  up  the 
doorway  through  which  he  now  issued  to  welcome 
O’Hogan  and  his  companions.  Age  seemed  to  have 
little  other  effect  upon  the  old  gentleman  than  that 
of  thinning  his  features,  and  giving  a  clearer  outline 
to  the  long  aquiline  nose  that  projected  between  his 
sharp  gray  eyes ;  for  his  figure  was  still  as  brawny 
and  erect  as  when,  nearly  fifty  years  before,  he  had 
donned  morion  and  back-and-breast  as  a  captain  of 
horse  under  the  Kilkenny  Confederation.  He  had 
been  too  much  accustomed  all  his  life  long  to  .scenes 
of  blood  and  sorrow  to  be  much  aifected,  at  least 
externally,  even  by  the  death  of  his  last  and  young¬ 
est  son  ;  yet  as  he  grasped  O’Hogan’s  hand  with  a 
silent  greeting,  and  glanced  at  the  woful  figure  upon 
the  table,  there  was  a  tear  in  his  eloquent  eye,  and 
a  twitch  upon  his  wrinkled  face,  that  told  the  work¬ 
ing  of  the  brave  but  troubled  soul  within. 

“  I  would,”  he  said,  still  keeping  O’Hogan’s  hand 
in  his,  “that  I  could  give  you  other  greeting  than 
this.  But  war  is  always  the  same.  It  has  long 
been  sapping  the  foundations  of  my  house,  and  now 
it  has  taken  my  last  son.” 

“He  died  the  death  of  a  brave  man,  however,  like 
his  brothers  before  him,”  said  O’Hogan,  his  heart 
swelling  and  his  eyes  also  glistening  at  sight  of  the 
old  soldier’s  trouble. 

“Yes,” rejoined  the  latter, “he  died  at  least  inhar- 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


1G3 


ness.  This  morning  at  rise  of  sun  he  rode  forth  at 
the  head  of  the  men  of  Coonagh,  to  lie  in  wait  for 
a  troop  of  cavalry  who  began  yesteij^ay  pillaging 
the  country,  and  who  then  carried  their  booty  last 
night  to  the  House  of  Lisbloom.” 

“  It  must  be  the  same  party  that  our  messenger 
told  us  of,”  said  O’TIogan.  “  I  knew  they  would  not 
go  to  garrison  Black  Gideon’s  house  without  spilling 
some  blood  upon  the  way,  and  having  a  little  pillage 
to  keep  their  hands  in  practice.  But  we  will  settle 
accounts  with  them  ere  lon<r.” 

“  It  was  for  that  purpose  my  son  went  forth,”  con¬ 
tinued  Ihe  old  man,  “  and,  had  he  only  lived  to  meet 
them,  they  would  scarcely  have  returned  to  Lis¬ 
bloom.  But,  alas!  as  he  crossed  the  Bridge  of  Tern, 
and  just  caught  sight  of  the  English  cavalry  coming 
out  into  the  plain  to  commence  their  day  of  blood, 
a  single  carbine-shot  from  the  wood  hard  by  struck 
him  through  the  heart,  and  there  he  lies.”  And  he 
pointed  sternly  to  the  table.  “Yes,  there  he  lies; 
and  there  be  who  say  that  it  was  the  man  you  meu- 
tioned  but  just  now  who  fired  the  shot,  —  Black 
Gideon  Grimes.” 

“  A  curse  upon  the  hand  that  fired  it :  it  was  a 
base  and  coward  shot,”  said  Tibbot. 

“  Young  man,”  returned  the  brawny  patriarch  of 
Glenurra,  “  curse  not,  for  words  are  idle  and  worth¬ 
less  in  times  like  this.  One  good  sabre-cut  on  the 
crown,  or  slash  across  the  breast  or  face,  is  worth  ten 
thousand  words  in  redressing  a  wrong.” 


164 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM, 


“In  the  method  you  favor,”  said  O’Hogan,  “lean 
safely  say  Tibbot  is  not  slack.” 

“I  know  it^^  answered  the  old  man,  “  and  he  will 
soon  have  opportunity  enough  for  practising  it ;  for 
I’ve  sent  for  my  nephew,  Eman  na  Cnuc,*  whom  I 
expect  here  momently  with  his  men.  Ha  !  Marion,” 
he  continued,  his  gray  eyes  flashing  fiercely,  as  the 
young  girl  again  commenced  clasping  her  hands  and 
moaning  piteously  at  the  head  of  the  table,  “  your 
loss  will  be  well  avenged  ere  many  days  are  over.” 

“We  have  all  an  account  to  settle  with  the  mur¬ 
derous  dog  whose  shot  laid  poor  Hugh  low,”  said 
O’Hogan;  and  he  related  the  news  brought  by  Cus 
Russid,  and  the  adventure  that  befell  them  in  the 
chamber  of  the  Gray  Knight.  He  then  introduced 
Sarsfield. 

The  old  soldier  of  Glenurra  cast  an  admiring 
glance  on  the  great  cavalry  general  with  whose 
name  all  Ireland  was  now  ringing,  took  his  hand 
with  a  clasp  like  that  of  a  vice,  and  gave  him  a  wel¬ 
come,  sad  enough  indeed,  but  still  cordial,  to  his 
castle.  While  engaged  in  the  conversation  that  fol- 
lowed,  a  slight  rustle  was  heard  in  the  room ;  and,  on 
turning  round,  they  beheld  standing  silently  at  the 
foot  of  the  table,  and  gazing  fixedly  at  the  corpse,  a 
figure  that  the  old  chief  and  the  two  Rapparee  lead¬ 
ers  knew  well,  but  which  at  once  struck  Sarsfield  as 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  he  had  ever  seen. 

There,  erect  as  a  spear-shaft,  stood  a  young  man. 


*  Edmond  of  the  Hill. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIS  BLOOM. 


165 


slightly  above  the  middle  height,  with  eyes  black 
and  piercing  like  those  of  an  eagle,  and  a  sun-em¬ 
browned  face  eminently  beautiful  in  its  contour  and 
proportions.  A  bright  morion,  in  the  crown-spike 
of  which  was  stuck  a  spray  of  heather  with  its  pur¬ 
ple  flowers  all  in  bloom,  defended  his  proud  head ; 
and  from  beneath  it  flowed  down  a  mass  of  raven- 
black  and  shining  hair  upon  a  glittering  steel  corse¬ 
let,  under  which  in  its  turn  the  skirts  of  a  light 
green  coat  fell  in  graceful  folds  over  the  manly  leg 
of  its  wearer.  Over  the  corselet  was  flung  a  broad 
green  leathern  belt,  from  which  depended  a  heavy 
cavalry  sabre  and  a  long  skean  or  dagger,  with  the 
hilt  of  which  latter  the  hand  of  its  owner  was  play¬ 
ing  neiwously  as  he  still  stood  gazing  sorrowfully 
upon  the  pale  face  of  the  corpse.  Such  was  Email 
na  Cnuc,  or  Edmond  of  the  Hill,  one  of  the  noblest 
gentlemen  and  bravest  of  Rapparee  captains  that  ever 
drew  sword  and  shook  bridle  free  in  the  cause  of  the 
worthless  and  weak-minded  King  James  the  Second. 

At  Ernan’s  appearance  in  the  hall,  the  caome,  or 
death-song,  recommenced  wilder,  more  vehemently, 
and  more  distressingly  sorrowful  than  before,  the 
women  bending  over  the  table  with  clasped  hands 
and  streaming  eyes ;  one  of  them,  in  the  intervals 
between  each  portion  of  the  heart-breaking  cry,  re¬ 
lating,  in  a  voluble  and  mournful  recitative  in  her 
native  tongue,  the  virtues  and  various  gallant  ac¬ 
tions  of  the  dead  youth,  dwelling  particularly  on 
those  done  in  companionship  with  his  dauntless 


166 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


cousin,  Edmond  of  the  Hill.  A  number  of  men 
now  filled  the  hall,  each  of  whom  wore  a  sharp  iron 
spur  upon  his  heel ;  and,  whether  he  carried  a  light 
green  cap  or  iron  pott*  upon  his  head,  having  a  sprig 
of  blossomed  mountain  heather  waving  jauntily  in 
its  crown,  —  a  badge  by  which  they  were  known 
through  the  wide  country  round  as  followers  of 
their  bold  captain,  Eman  ;  just  as  the  men  who  acted 
under  the  command  of  Galloping  O’Hogan  were 
recognized  by  their  plumes  of  green  waving  fem. 
Several  of  these  immediately  joined  in  the  cry ;  and 
so  contagious  did  their  grief  become  that  Sarsfield 
was  at  last  glad  to  retire  beyond  the  immediate 
sphere  of  its  influence  into  an  inner  room  of  the 
castle,  where,  with  the  aged,  but  still  warlike  Owen, 
with  Edmond  of  the  Hill,  and  the  others,  he  sat 
consulting  on  the  best  and  speediest  method  of  set¬ 
tling  accounts  with  Gideon  Grimes  and  the  blood¬ 
thirsty  troopers  who  now  garrisoned  the  redoubt¬ 
able  stronghold  of  Lisbloom. 

People  from  all  parts  of  the  surrounding  countiy 
were  still  crowding  into  and  around  the  Castle  of 
Glen urra,  although  it  was  nearly  midnight,  when  Cus 
Russid,  completely  worn  out  as  if  from  a  hard  day’s 
work,  glided  into  the  room  in  which  Sarsfield  and  the 
Rapparee  leaders  were  holding  their  council  of  war, 
and  stood  before  Tibbot  Burke. 

“Well,”  said  the  latter,  “I  hope  you  have  no 
worse  news  to  tell  us.” 


*  Pott,  — the  helmet  worn  by  the  common  cavalry  men  of  the  time. 


TJIE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


1G7 


“Indeed,  then,  sir,  be  my  sowl !  I  have,  —  the  Lord 
pardon  me  for  swearin’  before  your  lordship !  ”  an¬ 
swered  Cus,  addressing  the  latter  portion  of  his 
sentence  to  Sarsfield. 

“What  is  it,  my  man  ?”  asked  the  latter.  “Me- 
thinks  it  cannot  jjrove  much  worse  than  every  thing 
happening  around  us.” 

“  This  is  it,  my  lord,”  answered  Cus ;  “  an’  you, 
Captin  O’Hogan,  an’  you,  Edmond  o’  the  Hill,  an’ 
all  o’  ye  consarned,  ought  to  mind  it  well.  When  I 
stuck  my  skean  into  the  ribs  o’  the  first  man  that 
overtook  me  undher  the  ground  by  Lios  na  Cummer^ 
an’  then  got  out  into  the  free  air  o’  the  wood,  an’  put 
three  good  glens  bethune  my  carkiss  an’  the  pisthol  o’ 
Gideon  Grimes,  says  I  to  myself,  ‘Be  the  hole  o’ 
my  coat,  an’  be  the  blessed  stone  of  Iinly !  Cus 
Russid,  but  you’re  no  man,  but  a  mane  sprissaun,  if 
you  don’t  whip  off  to  Lisbloom  to  see  how  matthers 
are  carryin’  on  there.  I  did  so,  hop  at  the  venthure! 
my  lord,  an’  found  that,  instead  o’  one  throop  o’ 
dhragoons  an’  a  cannon,  that  there  were  two  throops 
there,  and  two  companies  of  infanthry,  together 
with  Black  Gideon’s  men,  to  defind  the  house  an’ 
pass.  I  heerd  all  this  from  one  o’  the  workmen,  — 
a  man  I  know,  that  came  into  the  wood  when  I 
whistled  for  him, —  be  the  same  token,  the  signil 
bethune  him  an’  me  was  the  whistle  of  a  hawk 
questin.’  The  other  throop  an’  the  companies  of 
infanthry  were  sent  there  to  furrige  the  counthry, — 
bad  luck  to  them  !  ” 


168 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


“  I  fear  me,”  said  Sarsfield,  with  a  gi-ave  face,  turn¬ 
ing  to  the  others,  “  that  it  will  be  now  impossible 
for  you  to  take  this  strong  house,  and  to  come  at 
your  man.  Oh  !  if  I  had  but  one  troop  of  my  Lu¬ 
can  horse  to  aid  us,  we  would  make  short  work  of 
them.” 

“Not  altogether  impossible,  my  lord,”  answered 
Edmond  of  the  Hill.  “  Outside  in  the  wood  I  have 
two  hundred  men,  half  of  them  foot,  and  well  armed 
with  pike  and  gun;  half  of  them  light  horsemen, 
who  will  follow  me  to  the  death.  My  uncle  of 
Glenurra  can  bring,  at  least,  fifty  more  horse  and 
foot  at  his  back ;  and  O’Hogan  can  have  his  men 
drawn  down  from  the  mountains  by  to-morrow. 
To-morrow,  then,  as  sure  as  there  are  stout  hearts 
in  our  bosoms,  we  will  wreak  vengeance  sure  and 
swift  upon  Black  Gideon  and  his  accursed  house.” 

“Be  it  so,”  said  O’Hogan  with  a  grim  smile. 
“You,  Tibbot,  take  horse  and  away  to  the  moun¬ 
tains.  Have  our  lads  of  the  fern  sprigs  here  by  to¬ 
morrow;  and,  by  the  blood  of  my  body!  if  we  do 
not  cut  up  the  Sassenach  rascals,  root  and  branch, 
or  burn  the  House  of  Lisbloom  over  their  heads, 
my  name  is  not  Galloping  O’Hogan.  Go  on,  Cus.” 

“  You  may  be  sure,”  continued  Cus  Russid,  with 
a  knowing  wink,  and  a  significant  wave  of  his  hand 
towards  the  western  point  of  the  compass,  “  afther 
the  way  I  thrated  the  Sassenach  captin  over  there, 
an’  served  the  dhragoon  with  my  pike,  when  I  made 
bould  to  take  his  horse,  you  may  be  sure  an’ 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


169 


sartin  that  I  didn’t  like  to  show  my  nose  in  Lisbloorn 
by  daylight.  I  waited  in  the  wood  till  nightfall,  an’ 
then  crep  in  over  ditch  an’  bethune  the  pallysadoes, 
just  for  all  the  worldt  like  a  weasel,  for  the  devil 
resave  the  morsel  o’  me  the  senthries  could  aither 
see  or  hear,  although  at  one  time  I  could  have 
tickled  one  o’  their  shins  with  my  skean.  I  crep 
an’  crep  till  at  last  I  landed  myself  safe  an’  sound 
among  the  weeds  right  undhernathe  the  window  o’ 
the  room  where  Ellie  Connell  was  confined.  I  wasn’t 
Ions:  there  till  I  heerd  high  words  inside,  an’  Black 
Gideon  spakin’. 

“  ‘  He  is  dead,’  said  he. 

“  ‘  Who  ?  ’  said  Ellie,  houldin’  her  breath,  the  poor 
crathur,  as  if  she  was  on  the  point  o’  dyin’. 

“  ‘  Tibbot  Burke  is  dead,’  answered  my  bowld 
Gideon. 

“‘Tibbot  Burke  dead!’  said  Ellie  with  a  great 
cry ;  an’  then  I  heerd  nothin’  but  her  moans  for  a 
long  fwhile. 

“  ‘  Yes :  ’  says  my  cute  fox  again,  ‘  an’  now  you  are 
free  to  have  a  betther  man.’ 

“ ‘The  end  of  it  was,”  concluded  Cus,  with  a  com¬ 
prehensive  glance  to  his  auditors,  “  that,  as  fiir  forth 
as  I  could  judge.  Black  Gideon  shook  his  dagger  in 
the  face  o’  poor  Ellie  Connell,  an’  gave  her  two 
days  to  consider,  an’  if  at  the  end  o’  that  time  she 
didn’t  consint  to  let  ould  Ilabakuk  Thrurapet-the- 
Word,  the  ould  Tackum  pracher  he  keeps  in  Lis- 
bloom,  —  bad  luck  to  the  same  Habakuk,  body  an’ 


170 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


bones  an’  sowl,  this  blessed  night !  —  to  many  them 
both  on  the  spot,  if  you  plaise,  he’d  hack  her  poor 
heart  into  pieces  not  half  the  size  of  a  thrish’s  ancle.” 

“  This  Gideon  must  be  as  active  in  wickedness  as 
the  evil  demon  himself,”  said  Sarsfield. 

“  He  is,”  said  O’Hogan ;  “  but  his  course  is  now 
run.” 

“Yes,”  said  the  old  chief  of  Glenurra:  “we  will 
catch  him  on  the  hip  to-morrow.  Even  as  I  now 
stand  on  the  brink  of  the  grave,  aged  and  worn,  I, 
even  I,  will  don  my  harness  to  have  one  good  blow 
at  the  murdering  dog  and  the  rieving  villains  who 
garrison  his  stronghold.  The  last  of  my  sons  lies 
stark  and  stiff  beneath  his  ruffian  bullet;  but  poor 
Hugh,  at  least,  shall  be  well  avenged.” 

Some  short  time  after  the  arrival  of  Cus  Russid, 
a  number  of  women  had  crowded  in  from  the  neisrh- 
boring  hamlets;  and,  as  the  chiefs  inside  listened 
to  the  important  narration  of  the  brown  messenger, 
the  caoine^  far  more  thrilling  and  loud  than  ever, 
broke  upon  their  ears  at  intervals  from  the  great 
hall  outside.  Amongst  these  new-comers,  who,  as 
each  batch  arrived,  raised  the  death-song  in  their 
turn  over  the  body  of  the  aged  chieftain’s  son,  was 
one  figure,  far  taller  than  any  of  those  with  whom 
she  entered,  who  now  sat  herself  down,  enveloped 
in  a  huge  gray  mantle,  the  hood  thrown  over  and 
carefully  concealing  her  face,  in  a  dark  corner  of  the 
hall,  near  the  door.  As  Tibbot  Burke  went  out  to 
get  his  horse,  in  order  to  execute  the  command  of 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


171 


his  captain,  this  mysterious  figure  stood  up  without 
a  word,  and  glided  close  upon  his  track  into  the 
great  yard  or  bawn,  and  thence  out  by  the  woodside, 
where  Tibbot  had  left  his  horse  tied  to  a  ti'ee.  It 
glided  now  behind  and  under  the  black  shadows  of 
the  branches.  Tibbot  was  preparing  to  mount,  when 
he  was  arrested  by  the  figure,  drawing  the  hood  more 
closely  over  its  features,  and  then,  for  the  first  time, 
speaking. 

“  Ha !  ”  it  said  in  a  coarse,  yet  well-feigned  voice, 
like  that  of  a  woman :  “  you  are  mounting,  Tibbo<t 
Burke,  for  the  battle,  just  as  Hugh  of  Glenurra 
mounted  his  steed  this  morninsf.  Ere  to-morrow 
morning  is  over,  where  shall  you  be  ?” 

“In  my  saddle,  I  suppose,”  answered  Tibbot, 
quietly,  “with  my  sword  in  my  hand,  shearing 
through  the  head-pieces  of  the  rascals  who  are  to 
come  out  from  Lisbloom  to-morrow,  to  rob,  pillage, 
and  slay  my  poor  countrymen  !  ” 

“No,”  returned  the  other,  “but  under  the  gory 
horse-hoofs  of  those  rascals,  as  you  call  profanely 
the  soldiers  of  the  brave  and  victorious  Kirm  Wil- 
liam.  No:  stark  and  bloody  you  shall  lie,  as  he 
inside  lies  beneath  the  godly  bullet  of  a  true  man.” 

“It  is  false,”  retorted  Tibbot:  “I  tell  you  I  shall 
slay  to-morrow  the  miscreant  and  coward  murderer 
whose  assassin  bullet  laid  my  comrade  low.  Gid¬ 
eon  Grimes,”  continued  he,  apostrophizing  one  whom 
he  thought  at  the  moment  far  away,  “  when  we  meet 
on  the  morrow,  take  your  last  look  at  the  sun ;  for. 


172 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


as  sure  as  that  sun  shines,  I  shall  slay  you  or  die.” 
And  he  ground  his  teeth  at  the  thought.  “Were 
you  other  than  what  you  seem,  —  a  woman,”  he 
rejoined,  turning  to  the  figure,  “1  would  send  your 
head  dancing  over  the  sward  with  a  slash  of  my 
sabre,  for  speaking  thus.” 

“I  am  what  I  am,”  returned  the  figure,  oracu¬ 
larly,  and  with  a  change  of  voice  that  made  Tibbot 
start ;  “  and  that  you  will  find  by  Tern’s  Bridge  to¬ 
morrow  ;  for  it  is  there,  I  have  heard,  you  mean  to 
attack  us.” 

“  Ha,  ha,  black  ruffian !  and  so  we  are  met  at 
last,”  exclaimed  Tibbot,  springing,  skean  in  hand, 
upon  Gideon;  for  in  that  disguise  the  ubiquitous 
undertaker  had  come  as  a  spy  into  Glenurra.  In 
an  instant  the  gi’ay  mantle  was  in  the  grasp  of  the 
young  Rapparee  lieutenant ;  but,  with  as  quick  an 
action,  the  undertaker  slipped  from  its  folds,  raised 
his  dagger  in  air,  and  struck  his  antagonist  a  blow 
on  the  chest  that  sent  him  staggering  a  few  paces 
backward  with  the  empty  garment  in  his  hand.  It 
was  well  for  Tibbot  that  he  wore  a  good  steel  jack 
that  night,  else  the  long  blade  of  the  undertaker  had 
dealt  him  a  fatal  blow.  Recovering  himself  in  a 
moment,  however,  he  again  sprang  vengefully  for¬ 
ward,  but  found  only  empty  darkness.  Gideon  was 
gone;  but  his  hissing  voice  sounded  once  more  from 
between  the  ghostly  trunks  of  the  dark  trees  in  the 
wood :  — 

“  Ha,  ha !  ”  he  said  :  “  you  will  come  to  your  doom. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISDLOOM. 


173 


base  dogs,  to-morrow,  at  the  Bridge  of  Tern,  when 
we  go  forth  to  bring  in  forage  for  the  army  of  the 
brave  Ginkell,” 

Tibbot,  knowing  that  pursuit  was  useless  in  the 
darkness,  sprang  upon  his  horse,  and  dashed  away 
down  a  valley  that  led  towards  the  mountains,  amid 
the  summits  of  which  were  encamped  the  horsemen 
belonging  to  Galloping  O’PIogan. 

At  length  the  morning  dawned,  and  the  wail  of 
the  caoiners  was  hushed  in  the  sorrowful  castle  of 
Glenurra.  All  were  asleep  in  and  around  the  castle, 
save  those  who  stood  sentinel  outside,  and  those 
who  watched  over  the  dead  in  the  hall.  Suddenly, 
from  the  wood  outside,  a  trumpet  sent  its  shrill 
reveille  echoing  through  the  silent  chambers.  The 
slumberers  awoke,  looked  to  their  arms,  and  in  an 
instant  there  was  a  loud  hubbub  and  hurrying  to 
and  fro  in  the  castle.  The  men  hastened  out  to 
rejoin  their  leaders;  while  the  women,  gathering 
round  the  corpse,  clapped  their  hands  together,  and 
with  wild  shrieks  raised  the  death-song  once  more, 
calling  upon  their  departing  relatives  to  wreak  ven¬ 
geance,  sure  and  swift,  upon  the  murderer  of  their 
aged  chieftain’s  son. 

Sarsfield  and  O’llogan  also  awoke ;  and,  choosing 
their  arms  from  the  plentiful  collection  that  hung 
around  the  walls,  went  out,  mounted  their  horses, 
and  souglit  the  wood  from  which  the  trumpet-note 
proceeded  ;  and  there,  in  a  broad  green  glade,  they 
found  the  fiery  Edmond  of  the  Plill  and  his  veteran 


174 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIS  BLOOM. 


uncle,  marshalling  their  men  for  battle.  Messengers 
had  been  sent  out  during  the  niarht  to  the  friends  of 

o  o 

Owen  ;  so  that  the  little  Rapparee  army  was  now 
augmented  considerably,  amounting  to  about  one 
hundred  and  fifty  horse,  and  as  many  foot.  The 
latter  were  armed,  half  with  long  pikes,  half  with 
muskets,  each  having  a  long  skean  dangling  at  his 
belt ;  and  the  bright  eyes  of  Sarsfield,  scanning  the 
ranks  of  the  former,  flashed  approvingly,  as  he 
noted  their  brown,  hardy  faces  and  well-knit  frames, 
while  they  sat  their  small,  but  burly  horses,  sword 
in  hand,  and  in  two  long  lines,  awaiting  the  com¬ 
mand  of  their  leader. 

“  My  lord,”  said  Edmond  of  the  Hill,  as  Sarsfield 
came  up,  “you  have  the  best  right  to  command 
here.  Will  you  lead  us  for  once?  and  I  trust  we 
shall  show  you  ere  leaving  that  the  poor  Rapparees 
can  strike  as  hard  as  the  men  of  the  regular  army.” 

“  You  will  excuse  me,  young  sir,”  returned  Sars¬ 
field  courteously,  “  but  methinks  the  command  more 
befits  you  at  the  present,  seeing  that  you  are  accus¬ 
tomed  to  the  evolutions  of  these  brave  lads.  There¬ 
fore  I  will  serve  as  a  volunteer  under  your  orders 
to-day,  and  hope  at  the  same  time  to  do  my  devoir, 
like  a  man,  with  the  rest.” 

“Well,  my  lord,  I  suppose  it  must  be  so,”  said 
Edmond  of  the  Hill;  “but,  as  I  must  thus  command 
the  whole,  O’Hogan  here  will  lead  the  horse,  seeing 
that  his  own  have  not  come  in  yet.  When  they  do, 
Tibbot  knows  how  to  fall  on  with  them  like  a  man.” 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM.  175 

To  this  O’Hogan  absented.  “My  uncle  here  will 
keep  by  your  side,  my  lord,”  continued  the  young 
Rapparee  leader ;  “  and,  if  he  can  get  one  good  sword- 
slash  at  the  crown  of  Gideon  Grimes,  why,  in  God’s 
name!  let  him  have  that  comfort  before  he  dies.  We 
must 'now  away.”  His  words  of  command  rang 
along  the  line,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  whole 
body  was  marching  at  a  steady  pace  through  the 
valley  that  led  towards  the  foot  of  the  far-off  range 
of  mountains. 

After  putting  about  a  dozen  miles  between  them¬ 
selves  and  Glenurra,  they  arrived  upon  the  verge  of  a 
bosky  moorland,  through  which  the  Mulkern  wound 
northward  in  many  a  shining  sinuosity,  overshad¬ 
owed  here  and  there  by  clumps  of  venei*able  ash- 
trees,  that  gave  a  peculiarly  sylvan  and  picturesque 
aspect  to  its  low,  swampy  shores.  Out  upon  the 
other  verge  of  this  broad  moorland  the  high  peak  of 
Comailte,  the  brawny  giant  that  rears  its  shaggy 
head  to  the  heavens  in  the  van  of  the  solitary  range 
of  Sliav  Bloom,  sent  forward  its  rugged  spui-s,  be¬ 
decked  with  many  a  clump  of  green  holly  or  moun¬ 
tain  ash,  or  shining  all  over  with  the  blooms  of  the 
purple  heather  ;  and  between  these  spurs,  or  hillocks, 
many  a  brawling  rivulet  shot  down  with  its  ever- 
murmuring  song,  and  with  its  tiny  waves  glistening 
like  silver  in  the  golden  sun  of  that  pleasant  autumn 
morning.  From  the  spot  on  which  they  now  halted, 
a  broad  bridle-path  led  through  the  centre  of  the 
moorland,  and  over  a  bend  of  tlie  Mulkern  by  a 


176 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


two-arched  bridge,  so  narrow  tliat  three  horsemen 
could  scarcely  ride  abreast  over  its  rugged  cause¬ 
way.  This  latter  was  the  Bridge  of  Tern,  beside 
which  poor  Hugh  of  Glenurra  had  fallen  on  the  pre¬ 
vious  day  beneath  the  carbine  of  Black  Gideon 
Grimes. 

“  Are  the  foragers  from  Lisbloom  to  cross  this 
bridge  ?  ”  asked  Sarsfield,  as  his  eye  roved  over  and 
arbund  the  rude  and  ancient  structure  with  a  scruti¬ 
nizing  and  keen  glance. 

“  It  is  the  only  pass  they  have  to  the  plain  south¬ 
ward,”  answered  Edmond  of  the  Hill ;  “  and  we  mean 
to  wait  for  their  coming  in  the  wood  at  this  side 
of  it.” 

“I  must  certainly  commend  your  judgment  in  the 
choice  of  a  position,”  returned  Sarsfield :  “  for  the 
little  plain  between  tlie  wood  and  the  bridge  is  a 
good  spot  for  our  horsemen  to  charge  them  when 
tliey  are  half  over ;  and  see,  by  my  good  faith  as  a 
soldier !  at  the  very  bridge  the  river  takes  a  bend 
towards  us,  where  our  infantry  can  rake  their  fianks 
as  they  cross.” 

Again  the  little  army  moved  on,  and  took  up  its 
position  in  the  following  manner :  The  horsemen, 
after  forming  in  line  in  the  wood  in  front  of  the 
river,  dismounted,  and  concealed  themselves  under 
the  trees,  ready  to  mount  again  and  charge  at  the 
word  of  their  cpmmander;  while  those  of  the  in¬ 
fantry  that  carried  muskets  crouched  down  under 
shelter  of  the  copses  that  clad  the  banks  on  each  of 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LI  SB  LOOM. 


177 


the  hither  sides.  The  pikemeii  stood  in  a  body 
under  cover  of  the  wood,  on  the  flank  of  the  horse¬ 
men  ;  and  thus  they  all  awaited,  with  stern  faces  and 
vengeful  hearts,  the  coming  of  their  foe. 

They  had  not  long  to  wait.  Before  half  an  hour 
was  over,  they  beheld  the  glint  of  weapons  and 
armor  in  a  winding  valley  that  led  down  from  the 
Pass  of  Lisbloom ;  and  at  length  the  main  part  of 
the  garrison  of  that  important  stronghold  emerged 
upon  the  far  verge  of  the  moorland,  and  took  its 
way  over  the  bridle-path  that  led  towards  the  Bridge 
of  Tern. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

CONTAINING,  ALONG  WITH  THE  END  OF  THE  STORY,  THE 
BATTLE  AT  THE  BRIDGE  OF  TERN  ;  THE  DEATH  OF 
GIDEON  GRIMES,  AND  RECOVERY  OF  ELLIE  CONNELL  ; 
WITH  THE  TAKING  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM  BY  THE 
RAPFAREES. 

“  Were  it  not  for  my  uncle,  who  insists  upon 
avenging  himself  upon  the  very  spot  where  Hugh 
was  murdered,  I  would  let  them  pass  the  bridge,” 
whispered  Edmond  of  the  Hill  to  Sarsfield,  as  he 
saw  the  bright  accoutrements  of  the  enemy  flashing 
in  the  sun:  “I  would  let  them  pass,  and  then 
attack  the  House  of  Lisbloom  in  their  absence.” 

“  It  would  be  the  wisest  course,”  answered  Sars- 


12 


178 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


field ;  “  but,  now  that  we  will  soon  have  them  face 
to  face,  we  must  do  as  best  we  may.  And  a  tough 
morning’s  work  we  have  before  us,”  he  continued, 
peering  warily  out  between  the  trees;  “for,  by  Our 
Lady  !  they  outnumber  us  considerably.  See  !  our 
force  only  equals  that  of  theirs  in  uniform.  But 
look  at  that  dark  body  of  men  in  the  centre,  with  the 
tall,  lank  horseman  at  its  head.  Who  may  that  be  ?  ” 

“It  is  Gideon  Grimes,  my  lord,”  answered  Owen 
of  Glenurra,  in  a  deep  voice,  like  the  growl  of  a 
crouching  lion. 

“  It  is  Black  Gideon  himself,”  said  Edmond  of  the 
Hill.  “  O’Hogan,”  continued  he  in  a  fierce  whisper, 
“  pass  the  word  to  have  the  men  lie  close  till  they 
get  the  signal  to  mount  and  charge.  I  will  blow 
the  charge  on  my  whistle  when  the  time  comes.” 
And  he  held  out  a  beautifully-chased  silver  whistle, 
that  hung  by  a  small  chain  from  a  ring  in  his  belt. 

O’Hogan  crept  in  front  of  the  line,  executed  the 
order  of  the  young  commander,  and  then  returned. 

“  Ha !  ”  exclaimed  he,  on  looking  forward  again, 
“here  conies  their  vanguard  clattering  over  the 
bridge  at  last.  I  hope  our  men  under  the  copses 
yonder  will  not  be  tempted  to  fire  at  them  as  they 
pass.” 

“  My  two  foster-brothers,  Theige  Keal  and  Pha- 
drig  Garv,  will  see  to  that,”  answered  Eman  na 
Cnuc.  “  They  command,  one  above  and  the  other 
below  the  bridge,  with  strict  orders  not  to  pull  a 
trigger  till  they  hear  my  whistle.” 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISELOOH. 


179 


The  main  body  of  the  enemy  was  at  last  some¬ 
what  more  than  half  over  the  bridge,  the  men 
bandying  joke  and  jibe  at  the  timidity  of  the  poor 
Rapparees,  whom  they  expected  to  find  and  cut  to 
pieces  on  the  spot ;  yet  whose  apparent  absence  not 
a  little  relieved  their  minds,  however.  The  half-a- 
dozen  men  of  the  vanguaixl  seemed  in  an  unusually 
hilarious  humor;  for,  as  they  leisurely  appi’oached 
the  wood,  they  chaunted  at  the  top  of  their  bent 
the  chorus  of  a  delectable  and  popular  Willianiite 
ballad  of  the  day,  the  verses  of  which  were  intoned 
in  a  rattling,  jolly,  and  stentorian  voice  by  the  fat 
Yorkshire  corporal  who  led  them  :  — 

“  Och,  be  my  sowl !  but  we’ve  got  de  Talbote, 

Lillabulero  bullena  la ! 

And  our  skeans  we’ll  make  good  at  de  Englishman’s  throat, 

Lillabulero  bullena  la !  ” 

“  Yerra,  then,  be  my  sowl !  if  you  were  the  father 
o’  lies  himself,  but  that’s  thrue  for  you  anyhow,  you 
red-nosed  robber !  ”  muttered  Cus  Russid  to  him¬ 
self  from  a  thicket  about  sixty  yards  in  front  of  the 
corporal.  “  Hi,  hi !  I  could  split  my  sides  wid 
laughin’  at  the  way  we’ll  carry  out  yeer  song,  an’ 
slit  yeer  windpipes,  afore  an  hour  is  over.” 

“Ah!”  sighed  Sarsfield,  as  he  too  listened,  “had 
both  the  subjects  of  that  ballad.  King  James  and 
Talbot,  never  set  foot  in  Ireland,  we  would  have 
managed  our  campaigns  to  some  purpose.” 

“  It  is  but  too  true,  my  lord,”  whispered  O’Hogan 


180 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


in  return.  “  Had  you  been  allowed  by  the  king  to 
charge  with  your  Lucan  horse  at  the  Boyne,  that 
disastrous  day  might  have  ended  differently.” 

“Yes;  and  all  subsequent  affairs  as  a  conse¬ 
quence,”  said  Sarsfield. 

Still  the  song  went  on,  the  chorus  of  each  verse 
being  now  taken  up  by  many  of  the  men  filing  over 
the  bridge :  — 

“  Dere  was  an  ould  prophecy  found  in  a  bog, 

Lillabulero  bullena  la ! 

Dat  Ireland  should  be  ruled  by  an  ass  and  a  dog ; 
Lillabulero  bullena  la ! 

And  now  dis  ould  prophecy  is  come  to  pass, 

Lillabulero  bullena  la! 

For  Talbote’s  de  dog  and  James  is  de  ”  — 

“  Ass,”  he  would  have  said ;  but  at  that  moment 
the  shrill  note  from  the  whistle  of  Edmond  of  the 
Hill  rang  over  the  moorland,  and  at  the  self-same 
instant  also  the  half-pike  of  Cus  Russid  came 
whizzing  from  the  thicket ;  and,  as  the  unfortunate 
corporal  was  in  the  act  of  opening  his  capacious 
mouth  to  pronounce  with  thundering  effect  this  last 
word  of  the  verse,  the  weapon  entered  between  his 
teeth,  literally  transpiercing  his  neck.  With  a  hor¬ 
rible  groan  he  fell  from  his  frightened  horse  upon 
the  stony  bridle-way. 

The  first  voice  that  broke  the  terrible  pause  that 
succeeded  was  that  of  Cus  Russid,  as  he  darted 
recklessly  out  from  the  thicket,  and  tore  the  sword 
from  the  liancl  of  the  dying  corporal. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


181 


“  Hi,  hi,  hi !  ”  he  laughed,  whirling  the  flashing 
weapon  around  his  head  —  “ha,  ha!  Dhar  Vurrhia! 
but  you’re  a  man  in  airnest,  Cus,  to  dhraw  the  first 
blood  on  a  day  like  this.” 

The  next  was  that  of  Pliadrig  Garv,  or  Patrick 
the  Rough,  the  foster-brother  of  Edmond  of  the 
Hill.  Phadrig  was  a  man  of  nearly  seven  good 
feet  in  height,  and  even  dispx’oi^ortionably  stout 
and  brawny  into  the  bargain.  His  tremendous  voice 
rang  over  the  moorland  like  that  of  a  mountain  bull, 
as  he  ordered  his  men  to  fire  on  the  exposed  flank 
of  the  enemy. 

The  third  was  that  of  Edmond  of  the  Hill  him¬ 
self,  as  he  gave  the  word  for  the  horsemen  to  mount 
and  charge,*  and  the  pikemen  to  rush  out  from  their 
ambush  and  fiill  on.  Then  came  the  shouts  of  the 
English  captains,  as  they  ordered  their  men  to 
deploy  into  line,  and  stand  the  shock  of  the  venge¬ 
ful  Rapparees. 

For  a  short  time  the  enemy  seemed  to  waver  as 
they  beheld  the  well-arranged  lines  of  Irish  horse 
and  pikemen  emerge  from  the  w'ood,  and  heard  their 
terrible  battle-cry  ringing  over  the  sombre  moor. 
Rut  it  was  only  for  a  moment;  for,  just  as  they 
commenced  to  turn  their  beards  over  their  shoulders, 
as  the  Spanish  saying  goes,  and  look  behind,  Black 
Gideon  Grimes  and  his  compeers,  witJi  their  men, 
came  steadily  forward  upon  their  right  in  a  well- 
formed  line,  the  appearance  of  w^hich  had  the  effect 
of  re-assuring  the  English  troopers.  But  a  con- 


182 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


tinuous  line  all  along  their  front,  they  got  no  time  to 
form ;  for  in  an  instant,  with  a  ringing  cheer  that 
rose  high  over  the  rattle  of  musketry  and.  the  clash 
of  swords,  the  Rapparees  were  upon  them,  with  a 
shock  like  a  peal  of  crashing  thunder.  Then  com¬ 
menced  one  of  those  struggles,  sharp,  deadly,  and 
decisive,  that  always  ensues  when  the  antagonists 
on  both  sides  are  men  of  strength  and  mettle. 

The  English,  both  horse  and  foot,  were  good  and 
steady  soldiers;  and  their  auxiliaries,  the  undertakers, 
were  not  a  whit  behind  them  in  valor.  These  men, 
descended  from  the  veteran  soldiers  of  Cromwell’s 
armies,  still  nourished  in  their  bosoms  the  fatalism 
of  their  Roundhead  fathers ;  and  believing  that  the 
hour  of  their  death  was  predetermined  from  that  of 
their  birth,  and  consequently  that  none  could  die 
then  and  there  unless  their  inexorable  fate  willed  it, 
inheriting  also  a  mad  contempt  for  their  Irish 
opponents  and  a  hatre,d  of  the  latter  amounting  to 
frenzy,  they  now  stood  their  ground,  and  met  the 
gallant  charge  of  the  Rapparees  with  a  coolness 
and  spirit  worthy  of  a  better  cause.  But,  notwith¬ 
standing  all  this,  the  enemy  began  gradually  falling 
back,  till  their  whole  line,  with  both  flanks  drawn 
in,  appeared,  with  the  gaps  made  here  and  there  in 
it,  like  a  torn  tUe  du  pon%  or  half-moon,  in  front  of 
the  bridge.  JRound  the  outside  of  this  grim  semi¬ 
circle,  the  Rapparees,  both  footmen  and  horsemen, 
were  now  raging  like  so  many  demons. 

At  length  the  whole  line  suddenly  gave  way,  and. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


183 


horse  and  foot,  mingled  pell-mell,  endeavored  to 
make  their  escape  over  the  bridge,  the  approach 
to  which  was  soon  strewn  with  their  corpses;  for  the 
victorious  Rapparees,  with  vengeful  weapons  and 
stout  arms,  pushed  them  close  behind,  cutting  them 
mercilessly  down  as  they  fled. 

“  Blood  for  blood !  ”  roared  Phadrig  Garv,  as  he 
rushed  sword  in  hand  amidst  the  confused  thronsf. 

“Remember  Hugh  of  Glenurra!”  shouted  Ed¬ 
mond  of  the  Hill,  as  he  clove  a  dragoon’s  skull, 
through  morion  and  all,  to  the  very  chin. 

“  Give  them  a  touch  of  Limerick  breach,  my  brave 
lads,”  exclaimed  Sarsfield,  rattling  up  the  causeway 
and  overturning  every  thing  in  his  way. 

“Yes,  and  a  taste  of  Ballineety,”  laughed 
O’Hogan,  as  he  slashed  the  bridle-hand  from  the 
arm  of  one  of  Black  Gideon’s  comrades. 

“Vengeance,  vengeance  for  my  son!”  yelled 
old  Owen  of  Glenurra,  as  he,  too,  went  cutting  right 
and  left  into  the  fierce  meUe.  “Vengeance  for  my 
son!  Glenurra!  Glenurra,  for  ever!  and  down  with 
the  Pagan  Roundhead  dogs !  ”  and  the  cry  was 
caught  u])  and  echoed  long  and  loud  by  his  wild 
Raj)paree  followers,  as  they  now  swept  their  enemies, 
like  chaff,  over  the  gory  archway  of  the  bridge. 

The  English  at  length  succeeded  in  getting  over 
the  bridge ;  and  the  Irish  were  crowdii\gthe  slippery 
causeway  in  order  to  pursue  them  at  the  opposite 
side,  when  an  unexpected  messenger  stopped  them 
in  their  mid  career.  This  was  nothing  less  than  a 


184 


THE  HOUSE  OE  LI  SB  LOOM. 


heavy  iron  round  shot  from  the  large  brass  cannon 
so  much  admired  by  Cus  Russid  a  couple  of  days 
before.  The  enemy  had  concealed  it  as  they 
marched  across  the  moorland,  expecting  to  meet 
the  Rapparees  openly  at  the  bridge  ;  and  now,  after 
escaping  over  the  archway,  they  suddenly  divided 
right  and  left,  thus  leaving  a  space  through  which 
the  round  shot  came  ricochetting  along  the  bridle¬ 
path,  and  ploughing  throdgh  the  thick  throng  of 
the  advancing  Irish.  The  delay  occasioned  by  this 
unexpected  visitor  gave  time  to  the  enemy  to  form 
their  broken  ranks  once  more  at  the  other  side  of 
the  bridge. 

Both  sides  were  now  upon  their  guard ;  and  the 
battle  dwindled  down  to  an  occasional  shot  from 
the  cannon,  and  a  rattle  of  musketry  now  and  then 
from  the  skirmishers,  who  crept  out  on  either  shore 
of  the  Mulkern.  It  would  probably  have  con¬ 
tinued  at  this  low  ebb  until  night  separated  the 
belligerents,  were  it  not  for  a  wild  freak  of  Phadrig 
Gai’v,  whose  warlike  spirit  would  not  allow  him  to 
remain  in  inactivity  so  long,  especially  with  his 
blood  up,  and  the  enemy  almost  within  reach  of  his 
long  arm.  Mounted  on  a  trooper’s  horse  he  had 
taken  in  the  beginning  of  the  fray,  he  now  rode 
over  the  bridge  to  the  opposite  side;  and  there, 
reining  in  his  steed,  politely  invited  the  best  man 
amongst  the  English  troopers  to  come  forth  and 
meet  him  in  single  combat :  — 

“  For,”  said  he  in  his  imperfect  English,  and  in  a 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


185 


voice  that  could  he  heard  distinctly  at  the  other 
side  of  the  moor,  “  fwhile  our  blood  is  hot,  it  is  a 
morthial  pity  an’  a  burnin’  shame  to  let  it  cool ;  an’ 
hur  own  self  will  fight  the  best  Suidhera  Dheary  * 
amongst  ye  for  a  silver  skilling  or  a  dhuch  of 
IsgevahaP  f 

The  stake  he  proposed  for  his  tremendous  game 
of  hazard  was  so  low  and  reasonable  that  the 
simple-minded  Phadrig  expected  to  have  his  prop¬ 
osition  accepted  immediately  and  on  the  spot.  A 
long  consultation  followed,  however,  amongst  the 
English,  during  which  he  several  times  reiterated 
his  cartel.  At  last  a  trooper,  somewhat  like  Pha¬ 
drig  in  stature,  rode  forth  fi’om  the  ranks  of  the 
enemy,  and  accepted  his  challenge.  To  it  they  went, 
stoutly  and  warily,  encouraged  by  shouts  from  each 
side^l — each  party  expecting  its  man  to  come  off 
conqueror.  The  result  of  it  was,  however,  that  the 
gigantic  Phadrig  at  length  wheeled  his  hoi’se  round 
and  made  for  the  bridge,  with  his  equally  gigantic 
antagonist  a  prisoner  stretched  before  him,  beyond 
the  bow  of  the  saddle,  like  a  sack  of  corn  taken  to 
market  by  a  Kerryman. 

Seeing  this,  half-a-dozen  English  troopers  spuri-ed 
'forward  to  rescue  their  comrade,  while,  at  the  same 
time,  about  the  same  number  of  Rapparee  horse¬ 
men  rode  over  the  bridge  to  support  Phadrig  Garv. 
Once  more  it  came  to  sword  and  pistol  between 
them;  and,  both  sides  being  joined  by  the  main  part 


*  Ked  soldier. 


t  A  shiliiiig,  or  a  drink  of  whiskey. 


186 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


of  their  respective  comrades  and  officers,  a  general 
and  far  more  bloody  fight  than  ever  commenced  at 
the  further  side  of  the  bridge.  The  English,  who 
considerably  outnumbered  the  Rapparees,  succeeded 
in  driving  the  latter  partly  back  over  the  archway ; 
and  here,  in  one  of  those  strange  alternations  which 
sometimes  occur  in  the  common  course  of  life,  but 
more  frequently  amid  the  shifting  scenes  and  wild 
incidents  of  battle,  Sarsfield,  with  Edmond  of  the 
Hill  and  his  uncle  respectively  on  his  right  hand, 
sat  his  horse  at  the  keystone  of  the  causeway  con¬ 
fronting  one  of  the  English  captains ;  while,  opposite 
his  companions,  with  tightened  reins  and  swords 
ready  on  the  guard,  rode  another  Williamite  officer 
and  Gideon  Grimes,  the  eyes  of  the  latter  glaring 
with  a  look  of  immortal  hate  into  the  equally  fierce 
orbs  of  the  warlike  patriarch  of  Glenurra.  ^ 

“  I  have  seen  your  face  before,”  said  the  English 
officer,  eyeing  Sarsfield  keenly. 

“Probably,”  answered  the  latter;  “and,  after 
this  renewal  of  our  acquaintance,  I  hope  to  make 
your  memory  of  me  more  perfect.  Guard  yourself, 
sir.” 

The  answer  was  a  slash  from  the  Ensflishman’s 
sabre,  which  would  have  taken  Sarsfield  across  the 
forehead,  had  he  not  parried  it  dexterously. 

“By  Our  Lady!”  exclaimed  Sarsfield,  pushing 
forward  in  the  press  so  as  to  crush  the  Englishman’s 
horse  tightly  between  his  own  charger  and  the  worn 
parapet  of  the  bridge,  “  but  you  give  a  warm  wel- 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


187 


come  to  an  old  acquaintance.  However,  here  is  to 
return  it.” 

With  that,  after  parrying  another  cut  from  his 
antagonist,  he  suddenly  seized  the  latter  by  the 
bridle-hand,  raised  it,  and  plunged  his  sword  deep 
under  tlie  armpit;  then,  as  he  was  in  the  act  of 
withdrawing  his  weapon,  the  tottering  parapet  of 
the  ancient  bridge  gave  way,  and  the  dying  captain 
and  his  horse  were  precipitated  along  with  the 
filling  mass  of  masonry,  with  a  loud  splash,  into 
the  sullen  and  blood-stained  waters  of  the  stream 
below.  Sarsfield’s  horse  stumbled  over  one  of  the 
displaced  fragments,  and  would  probably  have  fol¬ 
lowed  that  of  the  ill-fated  Englishman,  had  not  the 
good  rider  who  bestrode  him  tightened  his  rein, 
and  driven  the  snorting  animal  in  a  flying  leap  over 
the  remaining  portion  of  the  parapet  in  front,  and 
down  upon  the  boggy  shore  at  the  other  side  of  the 
stream,  where  we  will  leave  him  slashing.and  parry¬ 
ing  right  and  left  in  the  thick  and  raging  throng  of 
combatants,  amidst  which  he  alighted. 

Meanwhile,  Edmond  of  the  Hill  and  the  other 
English  officer  were  not  idle.  Both  were  accom¬ 
plished  and  wary  swordsmen ;  and  the  fight  between 
them  would  have  lasted  for  a  considerable  time,  had 
not  a  stray  bullet  struck  the  horse  of  the  former  in 
the  chest.  The  wounded  animal,  probably  receiving 
the  bullet  through  its  heart,  stumbled  and  fell 
heavily  forward  upon  its  knees ;  and  the  English 
officer,  stooping  over  his  saddle-bow,  was  about  to 


188 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


derive  the  head  of  Edmond  of  the  Hill,  when 
O’Hogan,  riding  by  at  the  moment,  struck  up  his 
sword,  and  then  literally  sheared  his  head  in  two 
with  one  slash  of  the  four-foot  blade  he  had  taken 
that  morning  from  Glenurra.  In  an  instant,  Ed¬ 
mond  of  the  Hill  was  on  his  feet;  and,  springing 
into  the  empty  saddle  of  his  late  antagonist,  the 
two  Rapparee  captains  rattled  side  by  side  into  the 
press  in  front,  and  left  Black  Gideon  and  old  Owen 
O’Ryan  to  see  it  out  upon  the  causeway. 

“  Ha !  ”  exclaimed  Gideon,  glaring  at  Owen.  “  Re¬ 
member  the  bloody  field  of  Knocknanoss,  old  Rap¬ 
paree  dog,  where  you  and  your  leaders  were  stricken 
by  the  good  swords  of  the  Lord’s  chosen  warriors; 
but  where  you,  in  your  profane  rage,  lopped  off  the 
right  hand  of  my  fathep.  You  shall  now  die  for 
that  sore  blow,  as  your  Rapparee  son  died  before 
you  yesterday  by  this  hand.” 

“Yes,”  answered  the  aged  soldier,  “I remember 
that  field  well,  base  murderer,  and  the  cuckoldy  old 
Roundhead  drummer,  your  father.  See  !  this  is  the 
very  sword  I  carried  through  that  field  of  blood,  and 
that  slashed  off  your  father’s  hand,  so  that  he  could 
never  more  twirl  drumstick  and  beat  the  charge  to 
call  the  damned  Cropears  into  battle.” 

Without  another  word,  the  two  enemies  closed ; 
and  Black  Gideon  would  probably  have  fared  some¬ 
what  worse  than  his  father  at  the  field  of  Knockna¬ 
noss,  had  not  a  round  shot  from  the  cannon  struck 
the  keystone  of  the  bridge  beneath  the  stamping 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


189 


hoofs  of  their  horses.  The  rickety  and  timeworn 
arch  fell  in  at  the  shock  ;  and  down  into  the  horrible 
chaos  beneath  "went  the  two  mortal  foes,  horses  and 
all,  the  combatants  around  standing  still  for  a  mo¬ 
ment  at  the  unwonted  mishap,  and  then  falling  to 
once  more,  more  vengefully  than  ever.  There  was 
a  struggle  and  then  a  lull  beneath  ;  but  in  a  few  mo¬ 
ments  Black  Gideon  bounded  up  the  opj)osite  bank, 
with  his  gory  dagger  in  his  hand,  leaving  the  dead 
body  of  the  bra^m  old  chieftain  of  Glenurra  beneath 
the  broken  arch. 

Although  the  princiiDal  English  officers  had  fallen, 
others  of  approved  skill  and  bravery  had  taken  then- 
places  ;  and  the  battle  would  have  gone  sorely  with 
the  Irish,  who  were  now  all  at  the  opposite  side  of 
the  bridge,  their  right  flank  raked  by  the  terrible 
brass  cannon,  were  it  not  that  at  this  opportune 
time  Tibbot  Burke  came  riding  over  the  moorland 
to  their  aid,  at  the  head  of  about  fifty  of  the  fierce 
horsemen  belonging  to  O’Hogan.  On  they  came, 
their  green  plumes  of  fern  dancing  blithely  in  the 
wind,  and  with  a  wild  and  vengeful  war-cry  fell 
with  sword  and  pistol  upon  the  flank  of  the  enemy. 
A  terrible  rout  ensued.  The  English  infantry  were 
now  scattered  and  cut  down  ;  and  the  horse,  wheel¬ 
ing  round,  swept  like  a  scattered  torrent  across  the 
moor,  and  away  over  the  rough  country  that  lay  be¬ 
tween  them  and  the  Pass  of  Lisbloorn,  the  Rapparee 
cavalry  behind  them,  sabring  them  in  little,  groups 
here  and  there  over  slope  and  valley. 


190 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


Phadrig  Garv,  who  wished  to  join  in  the  pursuit, 
now  found  himself  mightily  impeded  by  his  gigantic 
prisoner,  whom  he  had  contrived  to  keep  before  him 
on  the  saddle  through  the  fray.  Catching  the  bridle 
of  a  riderless  steed  that  stood  near,  he  bent  his 
large,  wild  eyes  compassionately  on  his  captive  :  — 

“  Hur  own  self,  ”  said  he,  “was  once  a  prisoner,  an’ 
a  good  Sassenach  released  hur  without  eric  or  ran¬ 
som.  Sassenach,”  and  he  gave  the  burly  form  of 
the  Englishman  a  tremendous  shake,  “take  this 
horse  and  flee.  It’ll  never  be  said  by  foe  or  sthranger 
that  Phadrig  Garv  MocRonan  failed  to  repay  a  good 
an’  ginerous  deed  done  to  hur  own  four  bones  in  the 
day  of  thrubble.  ” 

With  that,  he  helped  his  foe  tenderly  to  the 
ground ;  saw  him  mount  and  fly  for  his  life  down  by 
the  shore ;  and  then  striking  his  ponderous  foot  upon 
the  steaming  flank  of  his  own  charger,  with  a 
relieved  heart  and  contented  mind,  he  set  ofl*  with  a 
hilarious  roar  upon  the  track  of  those  that  fled 
towards  Lisbloom. 

One  of  the  English  gunners  who  had  charge  of 
the  cannon  was  a  brave  fellow,  and  deserved  a  bet¬ 
ter  fate.  Seeing  his  comrades  turn  and  flee,  he 
limbered  up  the  cannon  in  a  moment,  leaped  upon 
the  leading  horse  of  the  team  that  drew  it,  applied 
his  whip,  and  was  in  the  act  of  galloping  away^ 
when  Cus  Russid,  who  was  gliding  like  a  little  demon 
everywhere  over  the  field,  presented  a  i^istol,  and 
shot  him  through  the  head.  And  thus  Cus  took 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


191 


upon  himself  the  credit  of  capturing  the  cannon  he 
so  much  admired. 

It  was  now  about  half  an  hour  after  the  com¬ 
mencement  of  the  pursuit,  and  Cus  Russid  and  sev¬ 
eral  of  his  companions  were  congregated  around  the 
gun,  debating  amongst  themselves  how  to  dispose  of 
it,  when  a  horseman  came  spurring  back  with  an 
order  from  Edmond  of  the  Plill  to  take  it  forward 
to  Lisbloom,  in  order,  if  necessary,  to  batter  down 
the  defences  of  that  strongliold.  The  triumphant 
Cus  seated  himself  in  a  moment  astride  upon  the 
breech  of  the  gun,  while  some  of  his  comrades 
mounted  the  horses  ;  and  away  they  went,  attended 
by  a  jubilant  crowd  of  pikemen.  Now,  Cus  Russid, 
as  the  reader  was  made  aware  on  his  first  introduc¬ 
tion  to  that  lively  individual,  had  a  particular  pen¬ 
chant  for  singing  songs  on  every  possible  occasion. 
Deeming  the  present  a  more  than  usually  favorable 
one  for  indulging  his  musical  propensity,  after  kick¬ 
ing  up  his  heels  in  the  excess  of  his  delight,  and 
calling  for  attention  from  his  noisy  comrades,  he 
rattled  forth,  in  an  exceedingly  lively  and  merry 
strain, — 

“  THE  PRODESTAn’  GUN. 

“  There  are  threasures  in  Ireland  as  good  as  a  throne, 

Mighty  pleasant  an’  fine,  could  we  make  them  our  own  ; 

An’  this  Prodestan’  gun  is  a  very  fine  thing 
Fwhen  it  fights  for  ould  Ireland  and  Shemus  the  king. 

Yet  to-day  in  the  fray,  he  my  sowl  !  ’twas  no  joke, 

Fwhen  its  Prodestmi’  halls  through  the  llapparees  broke; 

But  its  race’  natho  the  sway  o’  the  Dutchman  is  run. 

For  the  Rapparees  now  own  this  Prodestan’  gun  ! 


192 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIS  BLOOM. 


Chorus,  boys !  Fwhilst  there’s  life  there’s  hope,  as 
the  worm  said  in  the  stomach  o’  the  gamecock. 

Dum  erlium  di  tay,  dum  erliura  ri  da, 

Dum  erlium,  fol  edrium,  dum  murlium  ri  da  ! 

Whist !  ,  ’Tis  time  to  stop  yer  windpipes,  ye  divvels. 
Here  goes  again,  as  the  snowball  said  fwhen  it  hit 
Nancy  Doornan  in  the  nose. 

'Tis  nate  at  the  patthem  to  dance  a  moneen  ; 

'Tis  nate  for  to  sit  by  a  purty  colleen  ; 

'Tis  sweet  for  to  bask  by  a  hedge  at  your  aise, 

Fwhen  the  winds  are  all  warm  an'  the  sun  in  a  blaze  ; 

There's  a  plisure  in  strikin'  your  innimy  sore  ; 

There's  a  plisure  in  friendship  an'  whiskey  galore; 

But  the  greatest  o'  plisures  that's  ondher  the  sun 
Is  to  turn  to  a  Papish  this  Prodestan'  gun  !  — 

Chorus !  chorus  !  chorus  !  as  the  wran  said  afore  he 
cracked  his  windpipe. 

Dum  erlium  di  tay,  dum  erlium  ri  da, 

Dum  erlium,  fol  edrium,  dum  murlium  ri  da  !  ” 

A  burst  of  laughter  hailed  the  termination  of  Cus 
Russid’s  song;  at  which  that  facetious  personage 
kicked  up  his  heels  upon  the  cannon  again,  and 
seemed  mightily  pleased.  When  they  at  length 
arrived  at  a  turn  in  the  pass  that  brought  them  in 
vifiw  of  the  stronghold  of  Lisblopm,  a  sight  pre¬ 
sented  itself  before  them  that  at  once  arrested  their 
further  progress.  To  explain  it,  it  is  necessary  to  go 
back  half  an  hour  or  so. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LI  SB  LOOM. 


193 


When  Black  Gideon,  who,  with  a  dozen  of  his 
comrade  undertakers  and  about  thirty  troopers, 
seemed  to  fly  on  the  wings  of  the  wind,  reached  his 
house  and  took  shel'ter  behind  its  fortifications,  the 
Rapparees,  headed  by  their  leaders,  were  just  enter¬ 
ing  the  opening  gorge  of  the  pass.  Gideon,  seeing 
that  the  place  was  no  longer  tenable  against  the  vic¬ 
torious  force  of  the  Rapparees,  told  all  whom  he  met, 
and  those  that  entered  with  him,  to  shift  for  them¬ 
selves,  and  then  rushed  up  a  winding  stair  that  led 
to  the  room  in  Avhich  Ellie  Connell  was  confined. 
Bearing  the  fainting  girl  in  his  arms  down  the  stairs 
and  out  into  the  bawn,  he  took  a  fresh  horse,  placed 
Ellie  before  him  on  the  saddle,  and,  dashing  out 
with  the  rest  through  the  open  gate,  followed  their 
course  up  the  pass  for  a  few  moments,  then  turned 
aside,  and  swept  obliquely  across  the  breast  of  the 
hill,  in  order  to  gain  the  shortest  track  leading  to 
Ginkell’s  camp  before  Limerick. 

It  was  therefore  that  Cus  Russid  and  his  com¬ 
panions,  as  they  halted,  beheld  the  Rapparees  pursu¬ 
ing  the  panic-stricken  remnant  of  the  garrison  up 
towards  the  high  outlet  of  the  pass,  and  two  horse¬ 
men  riding,  one  in  pursuit  of  the  other,  across  the 
declivity  of  the'  hill.  Cus  recognized  them  in  a 
moment.  . 

“Be  the  sowl  o’  my  father!”  he  exclaimed,  “if  it 
isn’t  Black  Gideon  himself,  with  Ellie  Connell  afore 
him  on  the  saddle !  An’  see,  there  is  Tibbot 
Burke  hot  fut  upon  his  thrack!  That’s  it,  Tibbot!” 


194 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISBLOOM. 


he  shouted.  “  Don’t  spare  the  spur  till  you  come  at 
him  with  the  good  soord  or  pishtol.  Hurry,  hurry, 
hurry !  for  you  have  a  fast  rider  and  a  desperate 
man  to  dale  wid.  Och !  they’H  be  soon  out  of  our 
siffhth  round  the  showldher  o’  the  hill.” 

O 

“No,”  said  one  of  his  comrades:  “Tibbot  is  get- 
tin’  above  him,  an’  will  make  him  turn  down  into 
the  glin  o’  Darren,  fwhere  we  can  see  it  all  out  be- 
thune  them.  Dhar,  Dhia !  bud  it’ll  be  grand.” 

“  Divvle  a  bit !  ”  returned  Cus :  “  he’s  too  cute  for 
that,  boys.  Look,  look !  he’s  goin’  to  ride  down 
the  side  o’  the  Coum  Dearg,”  alluding  to  a  deep 
scaur  or  glen  that  ran  down  the  side  of  the  hill; 
“  an,’  if  he  get’s  into  it,  the  sheep-thrack  will  take 
him  out  over  the  summit,  bad  luck  to  him  on  his 
journey!  Hurry,  Tibbot,  hurry  !  He’s  facin’ it ,  an’ 
see  how  the  hoofs  of  his  horse  sthrike  fire  from  the 
flinty  stones!  Hurry,  hurry,  Tibbot!  or  Black  Gid¬ 
eon  will  give  you  the  slip.  Ha !  honom-an-dhial, 
he’s  down  !  ” 

It  was  just  as  Cus  Russid  said.  Gideon’s  horse 
struck  one  of  its  fore  hoofs  against  a  stone,  stumbled, 
and  then  fell  forward  ;  Elbe  Connell,  luckily  for  her¬ 
self,  dropping  quietly  olf  upon  the  grass  at  the  upper 
side;  and  Gideon,  with  a  vain  eflbrt  to  recover 
himself,  at  length  rolling  over  and  over  for  a  space 
down  the  hill.  He  was  on  his  feet  in  an  instant, 
however,  and,  drawing  two  pistols  from  his  belt, 
stood  prepared  for  Tibbot,  who  wa^  now  approach¬ 
ing  at  full  speed.  As  the  latter  drew  near,  Gideon 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LISDLOOM. 


195 


suddenly  turned  with  a  diabolical  and  sinister  leer 
upon  his  face,  and  discharged  one  of  the  pistols  at 
Ellie  as  she  still  lay  senseless  upon  the  grassy  slope. 
The  ball  ploughed  up  the  earth  within  half  a  foot 
of  her  head,  but  did  no  harm.  The  other  pistol  he 
got  no  time  to  use ;  for,  as  he  wheeled  round  to  take 
aim  at  his  coming  foe,  the  sword  of  Tibbot  de¬ 
scended  upon  his  neck,  half  severing  the  head  from 
the  quivering  trunk.  Thus  fell  Black  Gideon 
Grimes ;  and  the  last  mortal  sound  that  rang  in  his 
ears  was  an  exultant  yell  from  the  gorge  beneath  of 
the  poor  peasants  whom  he  had  oppressed  and  plun¬ 
dered  of  the  little  left  them  by  war  and  tyranny  in 
their  native  glens. 

Ellie  Connell  soon  recovered  from  her  swoon ;  and, 
by  the  time  she  was  conducted  to  the  bottom  of  the 
pass  beneath,  most  of  those  engaged  in  the  pursuit 
had  returned.  There  Tibbot  presented  his  future 
bride  to  Sarsfield,  who,  with  a  pleasant  face,  wished 
them  many  a  happy  day  together,  —  a  wish  that 
was  afterwards  fulfilled.  Sarsfield  then  bade  them 
farewell;  and,  with  a  mighty  cheer  that  woke  the 
echoes  of  the  surrounding  hills  ringing  after  him, 
rode  up  the  pass,  accompanied  by  O’Hogan  and  his 
horsemen,  who  were  to  conduct  him  across  the 
Shannon  to  Limerick,  leaving  Edmond  of  the  Hill 
and  his  victorious  Rapparees  to  occupy  the  doughty 
stronghold  of  Lisbloom  for  the  service  of  King 
James  the  Second. 


The  White  Knights  Present. 

A  LEGEND  OF  ARDFINNAN 

- • - 


IN  the  latter  years  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  there 
lived  in  the  fortress  of  Ballindunney  a  chieftain 
who  was  known  by  the  euphonious  title  of  the  Mul- 
loch  Maol,  or  Maolmorrha  MacS  weeny.  He  was, 
about  the  time  of  the  following  events,  over  eighty 
years  of  age ;  but  the  martial  fire  that  animated  his 
youth,  for  he  had  been  a  renowned  warrior  in  his 
day,  burned  in  his  breast  as  brightly  as  ever.  With 
his  fourteen  stalwart  sons,  seven  at  each  side,  and 
his  retainers  ranged  in  due  order  below  them  along 
the  great  hall  of  the  castle,  he  still  presided  every 
evening:  at  the  feast :  and  almost  in  the  same  order 
he  rode  forth  to  battle ;  for  in  those  times  there 
were  battles  to  be  had  galore^  —  for  love,  for  money, 
and  even  for  nothing.  At  the  same  time  there  re¬ 
sided —  one  in  his  immediate  neighborhood,  and 
the  other  some  distance  to  the  west  of  his  castle  — 
two  worthies  of  renown,  who  made  it  a  settled  thing 
never  to  be  at  peace  with  one  another.  The  first 

199 


THE  WHITE  KNIGHT’S  PRESENT. 


197 


of  these  was  Shane  vie  an  Earla,  or  the  son  of  the 
earl,  chief  of  Ardfinnan  Castle;  and  the  other,  the  re¬ 
doubtable  Ridderah  Fion,  the  White  Knight,  lord 
of  the  Clingibbon  country.  Shane  vie  an  Earla  was, 
it  seems  to  me,  a  wily  and  prudent  man ;  but,-  in 
the  lano-uage  of  the  legend,  he  is  said  to  have  been 
an  arrant  coward,  always  at  variance  with  the  White 
Knight,  but  at  the  same  time  frightened  by  his 
threats,  and  applying  invariably  to  the  indomitable 
Mulloch  Maol  for  help  against  his  attacks.  One 
sunny  day  in  the  beginning  of  autumn,  as  Shane 
was-sitting  on  the  rock  of  Ardfinnan,  looking  over 
the  bright  scenery  of  the  Suir,  he  saw  a  sturdy ^but 
tattered-looking  beggar-man  coming  do\vn  a  little 
valley  to  the  west,  and  approaching  the  ford  which 
ran  across  the  river  near  the  castle.  When  he  had 
gained  the  opposite  end  of  the  ford,  he  stood  for  a 
few  moments  looking  cautiously  around  him  ;  then, 
taking  his  wallet  in  his  hand,  he  cast  it  into  the 
river,  and,  after  pulling  ofl*  his  tattered  cothamore,  or 
large  outside  coat,  stood  as  fine  and  brawny  a  speci¬ 
men  of  a  young  warrior  as  could  be  seen  in  those 
martial  times.  In  a  few  moments  more  he  had 
crossed  the  river,  and  was  standing  by  the  side  of 
his  chief,  Shane  vie  an  Earla. 

“  Vic  an  Earla,”  he  said,  “  the  men  of  the  forest 
will  be  upon  us  by  to-morrow’s  sun.  I  heard  the 
Ridderah  Fion  and  his  black  friend,  Diarmaid,  say¬ 
ing  so-  this  morning  at  their  gathering  under  the 
walls  of  Kilbeheny.” 


198 


THE  WHITE  KNIGHT’S  PRESENT. 


Vic  an  Eaiia’s  reply  was  interrupted  by  a  loud 
knocking  at  the  outer  gate  of  the  castle.  On  going 
to  see  what  was  the  matter,  to  his  great  joy  he  be- 
lield  his  friend  Maolmorrha  banging,  as  was  his 
wont,  with  his  sAvord-hilt  for  admittance  at  the  gate. 
Maolmorrha,  on  hearing  the  story,  could  not  repress 
his  satisfaction  at  the  prospect  of  an  encounter  with 
the  Ridderah  Fion  and  his  men. 

“Let  him  come,”  said  he,  “and  perhaps  he’ll  not 
be  so  eager  to  come  again.  We  have  a  yastle,  a 
rock,  and  a  river  on  our  side,  and  plenty  of  strong 
arms  to  defend  them  ;  and,  in  my  mind,  if  the  devil 
came  with  as  many  champions  as  he  could  muster, 
we’d  be  able  to  make  our  stand  good  against  him. 

Great  and  hurried  were  the  preparations  at  both 
castles  that  night;  and  before  the  dawn  of  morning 
the  conjoint  forces  of  Vic  an  Faria  and  Maolmorrha 
were  mustered  in  battle  array  beneath  and  upon  the 
walls  of  Ardfinnan,  Avilling,  if  not  able,  to  repel 
the  onset  of  the  Ridderah  Fion  and  his  folloAvers. 

The  first  light  of  the  morning  beheld  the  Ridderah 
and  his  forces  approaching  the  ford  that  led  to  the 
castle.  The  sight  that  met  their  eyes,  however,  a 
little  damped  their  ardor.  On  a  small  space  of  rock 
that  projected  about  a  dozen  feet  above  the  river,  the 
Mulloch  Maol,  in  full  armor,  sat  sword  in  hand,  and  i 
motionless  as  a  brazen  statue,  upon  his  white  steed, 
his  fourteen  sons  ranged,  seven  at  each  side,  below 
him  by  the  water’s  edge,  and  all  his  vassals  behind 
them,  eager  to  cross  the  river  and  begin  the  battle. 


THE  WHITE  KNIGHT’S  PRESENT. 


199 


The  ramparts  of  the  castle  were  lined  by  the  men 
of  Vic  an  Earla  with  their  harquebusses  in  hand, 
ready  to  fire  upon  the  enemy,  should  he  attempt  to 
cross  the  ford  and  attack  them.  Diarraaid,  the  Rid- 
derah’s  sword-bearer,  now  advanced  to  the  opposite 
end  of  the  ford  to  hold  a  parley. 

“  Son  of  a  strumpet,”  he  said,  addressing  Vic  an 
Earla,  who  stood  upon  a  turret  above  the  Mulloch 
Maol,  “  pay  the  eric  for  my  brother’s  head,  or  your 
own  head  and  your  castle  and  treasures  shall  be  the 
fine  when  this  day  we  ojaen  a  passage  to  them  with 
our  battle-axes.” 

The  Ridderah  now  rode  down  to  the  side  of  his 
sword-bearer.  “Yes,”  he  exclaimed,  “pay  the  eric 
for  the  life  of  the  gallant  Outlaw  of  the  Gap,  or  be¬ 
fore  another  hour  we’ll  have  a  hundred  lives  for 
his,  and  our  banner  floating  from  your  walls.  And 
you,  silly  old  man,”  he  continued,  addressing  the 
Mulloch  Maol,  “fitter  were  you  at  home  teaching 
your  fourteen  clowns  to  till  your  ploughlands  than 
standing  there  trying  to  stem  the  onset  of  a  gallant 
knight  fighting  for  his  just  demand.” 

The  Mulloch  Maol,  who  was  a  man  of  fiery  tem¬ 
per  and  prompt  action,  maddened  by  the  taunt  of 
the  Ridderah,  turned  to  his  sons  and  followers. 
“ Follow  me !”  he  shouted;  and,  suiting  the  action 
to  the  word,  he  sprang  his  war-horse  from  tlie  rock 
into  the  river  beneath,  and,  with  his  sons  and  re¬ 
tainers,  stood  in  a  short  time  upon  the  opposite 
bank.  In  a  moment  they  were,  sword  in  hand,  upon 


200 


THE  WHITE  KNIGHT’S  PRESENT. 


the  enemy.  In  the  midst  of  the  contest,  and  when 
the  besiegers  were  likely  to  have  the  worst  of  it,  the 
Mulloch  Maol  singled  out  the  Ridderah,  and  attack¬ 
ed  him  with  as  much  agility  as  if  he  were  in  the 
prime  of  life.  His  sword  missed  its  aim,  but  went 
sheer  through  the  saddle,  and  lodged  itself  deep  into 
the  side  of  the  Ridderah’s  war-horse.  The  horse 
sprang  into  the  air,  and  fell  to  the  earth,  bringing 
the  Ridderah,  in  his  heavy  armor,  down  with  a  clang 
that  gave  the  clearest  intimation  to  his  followers  of 
what  had  befallen  him.  This  was  the  turning-point 
in  the  fray;  for  the  Ridderah’s  followers,  with  the 
exception  of  Diarmaid,  fled,  leaving  him  a  prisoner 
in  the  hands  of  the  Mulloch  Maol.  Great  was  his 
surprise,  however,  when  the  Mulloch,  who  made  it  a 
point  always  either  to  kill  his  prisoner  or  set  him  free 
altogether,  told  him  that  he  was  at  liberty  to  depart 
to  his  forests,  but  that  his  life  was  spared  to  fi-ee  the 
eric  or  fine  for  the  life  of  Diarniaid’s  brother,  the 
Outlaw  of  the  GajD.  On  second  thought,  too,  the 
Mulloch,  considering  the  Ridderah’s  great  renown 
as  a  warrior,  invited  him  and  his  sword-bearer  to  a 
few  days’  merry-making  at  his  castle  of  Ballindunney. 
The  Ridderah,  though  perhaps  wishing  himself  back 
again  safely  in  his  castle,  did  not  find  it  convenient 
to  refuse;  so  he  accepted  the  invitation,  and  the 
merry-making  went  on  gloriously  for  two  days  in 
the  great  hall  of  the  Mulloch’s  castle.  At  the  end 
of  the  second  day  it  was  time  for  the  Ridderah  to 
depart.  He  had  noticed  that  there  was  a  great  scar- 


THE  WHITE  KNIGHT’S  PRESENT. 


201 


city  of  fuel  at  Ballindunney ;  the  servants  having,  in 
fact,  to  make  tires  of  straw  and  brambles,  for  want 
of  better,  in  consequence  of  the  scantiness  of  wood 
in  that  neighborhood.  As  some  recompense  for  fill 
the  kindness  shown  him,  the  Ridderah  offered  to 
send  an  ample  supply  of  wood  from  his  great  forests 
to  Ballindunney,  which  oflTer  the  Mulloch  Maol,  with 
his  usual  frankness,  gratefully  accepted. 

Seven  days  after  the  departure  of  the  Ridderah, 
the  Mullocli’s  youngest  son  descried  from  the  watch- 
tower  of  the  castle  a  long  line  of  wagons,  laden 
with  the  promised  firewood,  slowly  approaching 
from  the  ford  of  Ardtinnan.  On  their  arrival,  they 
were  unladen  in  the  great  bawn  of  the  castle.  Not¬ 
withstanding  the  abundant  gratitude  manifested  by 
the  Ridderah  on  leaving  Ballindunney,  and  his  broth¬ 
erly  sincerity  of  words,  the  Mulloch  Maol  still  sus¬ 
pected  some  treachery  in  this  present  of  firewood. 
He  examined  each  load,  and  found  that,  along  with 
the  timber  being  cut  into  logs  of  the  requisite  length 
for  burning,  some  were  a  little  blackened  at  the  end, 
where,  after  the  saw,  they  should  be  smooth  and 
white.  The  wily  old  chieftain  took  one  of  these  sus¬ 
picious-looking  logs,  and,  examining  it  more  closely, 
unperceived  by  the  Ridderah’s  men,  found  its  heart 
scooped,  and  tilled  with  a  quantity  of  j^owder  suffi¬ 
cient,  on  being  thrown  on  the  fire,  almost  to  blow 
up  his  castle.  The  Mulloch  pretended  not  to  notice 
what  he  had  discovered,  and  gave  directions  as 
usual  that  a  plentiful  dinner  should  be  prepared  for 


202 


THE  WHITE  KNIGHT’S  PRESENT. 


the  drivers  of  the  wagons.  JBy  tlie  time  the  din¬ 
ner  was  laid  in  the  hall  of  the  castle,  the  Mulloch’s 
•  men,  by  his  directions,  had  made  the  logs  of  fire¬ 
wood  into  a  great  heap,  with  the  harness  of  the 
Ridderah’s  horses  and  the  wagons  placed  on  the 
top  of  them.  When  the  drivers  were  seated  at  din¬ 
ner,  among  whom  was  Diarmaid  in  disguise,  a  war¬ 
rior  was  ordered  to  stand  at  the  back  of  each  man, 
with  a  battleaxe  in  his  hand,  and  to  strike  off  the 
head  of  whomsoever  should  stir  from  his  seat.  At 
about  every  five  minutes  during  the  dinner,  these 
warriors  went  round  and  round  the  hall,  shouting 
their  chieftain’s  war-cry,  and  striking  the  axes 
against  their  shields,  altogether  making  a  clamor 
which  caused  the  poor  drivers,  in  their  terror,  to 
imagine  themselves  sitting  before  their  last  dinner 
in  this  woiid.  When  dinner  was  over,  they 
were  ordered  out  into  the  bawn,  and  great  was  their 
surprise  to  see  the  logs  in  a  blaze,  with  the  wagons 
and  harness  upon  them.  When  the  flames  had 
reached  the  logs  containing  the  powder,  which  were 
placed  about  the  middle  of  the  pile,  logs,  harness, 
and  wagons  were  blown  up  with  a  sound  which  the 
deceitful  Ridderah  could  easily  hear  in  his  castle  of 
Kilbeheny.  The  drivers  were  now  directed  to  range 
themselves  before  the  castle-gate ;  and,  by  the  Mul¬ 
loch’s  commands,  their  horses  were  then  brought 
from  the  stables  and  given  back  to  them. 

“Dogs,”  said  the  fiery  old  warrior,  “is  this  the 
recompense  your  chieftain  sends  me  for  granting 


THE  WHITE  KNIGHT’S  PRESENT. 


203 


him  his  life  ?  Ride  and  tell  your  master  that,  should 
he  ever  get  into  Maolmorrha  MacSweeny’s  hands 
again,  his  head  shall  pay  the  forfeit  for  his  treach¬ 
ery.” 

The  drivers,  with  Diarmaid  at  their  head,  needed 
no  second  injunction  to  depart;  so  away  they  went 
upon  their  horses,  as  if  a  legion  of  Mulloch  Maols 
was  in  their  track,  till  they  reached  their  native  for¬ 
ests  by  the  Funcheon.  Diarmaid  told  Maolmorrha’s 
message  to  his  master;  but  the  Ridderah  Fion,  fear¬ 
ing  some  mishap  like  the  former  one,  and  setting  a 
due  value  on  his  head,  never  more  visited  the  castles 
of  Ballindunney  and  Ardfinnan. 


THE  FIRST  AND  LAST  LORDS  OF 

FERMOY. 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  FUNCHEON. 

-  ■  '  » - 


IT  was  a  fine  June  morning  in  tlie  year  1216. 

The  sun  shone  down  merrily  on  river  and  shore, 
and  gleamed  brilliantly  from  the  accoutrements  of  a 
herald,  who,  attended  by  two  squires,  was  riding 
leisurely  through  the  green  forest  towards  the  strong 
castle  of  Glanworth,  in  the  county  of  Cork,  at  that 
time  possessed  by  Sir  William  Flemming,  Baron  of 
Fermoy.  This  Sir  William  Flemming  was  one  of 
those  hardy  Norman  adventurers  who  came  to  Ire¬ 
land  under  Strongbow,  Earl  of  Pembroke,  and  who, 
after  fighting  in  many  a  hard  battle  against  the  na¬ 
tives,  at  last  gained  for  himself  the  fair  district  of 
Fenuoy,  built  in  the  centre  of  it  the  great  castle  of 
Glanworth,  on  the  banks  of  the  Funcheon,  and  there 
sat  down  to  spend  the  remainder  of  his  life  in  peace 
and  in  the  enjoyment  of  his  hard-won  possessions.  ■ 
But  perfect  peace  rarely  falls  to  the  lot  of  man.  Sir 
William  Flemming  had  an  only  child,  his  daughter 

204 


THE  FIRST  AND  LAST  LORDS  OF  FERMOY.  205 

Amy,  celebrated  both  for  her  beauty  and  her  good¬ 
ness,  and  whose  hand  soon  became  sought  for  in 
marriage  by  many  of  the  powerful  chiefs  around. 
Amy  Flemming,  however,  was  as  hard  to  be  pleased 
in  a  husband  as  she  was  good  and  beautiful,  and  re¬ 
fused  all  their  offers.  Among  her  suitors  was  Sir 
William  Cantoun,  or  Condon,  a  knight  of  Norman- 
Welsh  descent,  whose  father  had  won  for  himself 
the  barony  of  Condons,  adjoining  that  of  Fermoy. 
This  Sir  William  resided  in  great  state  at  the  strong 
castle  of  Cloghlea,  whose  ruins  may  yet  be  seen 
standing  on  a  high  limestone  rock  above  the  Fun- 
cheon,  a  few  miles  from  its  junction  with  the  noble 
Blackwater.  It  was  from  him  that  the  herald  and 
his  two  attendants  were  now  approaching  Sir 
William  Flemming’s  castle  of  Glanworth.  A  ford 
at  this  time  crossed  the  river,  where  now  rise  the 
arches  of  the  narrow  and  picturesque  bridge,  a  short 
.  distance  below  the  castle.  Through  this  ford  the  her¬ 
ald  and  his  two  attendants  dashed  their  horses  mer¬ 
rily  across;  and,  approaching  the  principal  gate,  or 
barbacan,  of  the  castle,  demanded  admittance  in  the 
name  of  their  master.  Sir  William  Cantoun.  They 
were  admitted  with  all  the  deference  and  courtesy 
accorded  in  those  chivalric  days  to  a  herald,  and 
conducted  into  the  great  hall,  where  they  requested 
an  audience  from  Sir  William  Flemming. 

“  I  come,”  said  the  herald,  as  the  stout  old  baron 
made  his  appearance,  “  with  two  presents  from  my 
Lord  of  Cloghlea.  This  pearl  chaplet  he  bids  me 


206 


THE  FIRST  AND  LAST 


offer  thy  daughter,  the  Lady  Amy,  and  demands 
through  me  her  hand  in  marriage.  In  case  she  re¬ 
fuse  his  present  and  his  offer,  I  am  commissioned  to 
offer  thee  this.”  And  he  produced  a  steel  gauntlet, 
which  he  laid  before  the  Baron  of  Fermoy. 

“  To  my  daughter  I  leave  the  acceptance  or  re¬ 
jection  of  such  gauds,”  answered  Sir  William 
Flemming:  “  We  will  call  her  into  thy  presence,  and 
see  how  she  takes  tliy  suit.  Now,”  continued  he, 
as  the  fair  Amy,  attended  by  her  maids,  entered  the 
hall,  “  make  thine  offer  again,  and  I  will  abide  by 
her  decision.” 

“Lady  Amy,”  said  the  herald,  “my  master.  Sir 
William  Cantoun,  sends  thee  this  fair  chaplet,  and 
asks  thee  to  become  Lady  of  Cloghlea  and  the  green 
woods  around  it.  What  is  thine  answer  ?  ” 

Amy  looked  for  a  moment  at  her  father,  but  saw 
in  his  face  no  expression  by  which  she  could  judge 
one  way  or  the  other  of  his  sentiments. 

“  Take  it  back,”  she  said  at  length,  as  she  drew 
up  her  fair  and  stately  figure.  “  The  knight  whose 
iron  mace  is  ever  raised  oppressively  over  the  heads 
of  the  poor  peasantry,  whose  hand  is  red  always 
with  unjust  blood,  he  shall  be  no  husband  of  mine. 
Thou  hast  my  answer.”  And,  with  a  haughty  and 
indignant  look  at  the  herald,  she  withdrew  with  her 
maids. 

“  And  now,”  said  Sir  William  Flemming,  as  his 
daughter  left  the  hall,  “  to  me  it  is  left  to  pay  thee 
due  courtesy.  I  accept  this.”  And  he  took  up  the 


LORDS  OF  FEUMOY. 


207 


steel  glove  with  a  grim  smile.  “  Tell  thy  master  to 
come  as  speedily  as  he  lists,  and  that  I  and  my 
crossbow  men,  and  riders-at-arms,  will  give  him  the 
reception  that  befits  his  state  from  the  ramparts  of 
Glanworth.” 

And  so  the  herald  again  crossed  the  ford,  and 
rode  back  to  his  master. 

But  it  seems  that  Sir  William  Flemming  miscal¬ 
culated  the  power  and  influence  possessed  at  that 
time  by  the  fiery  Baron  of  Cloghlea.  These  were 
days,  when  in  Ireland,  and  in  fact  throughout  every 
country  in  Europe,  the  strong  hand  with  lance  and 
sword  held  the  place  that  the  law  holds  at  the 
present  period.  Each  lord  and  baron  was  his  own 
lawgiver,  —  a  petty  prince,  who,  after  paying  his 
tribute  to  the  government,  held  himself  absolved 
from  all  other  obligations,  and  ruled  his  territories, 
and  made  war  and  peace  with  his  neighbors,  accord¬ 
ing  to  the  dictates  of  his  own  will.  And  so  it  was 
with  Sir  William  Cantoun. 

That  night  the  warder,  as  he  looked  from  his 
watchtower  on  the  summit  of  Glanworth  Castle, 
could  see  the  whole  wide  plain  to  the  eastward 
ablaze  with  the  signal  fires  of  the  wrathful  Baron  of 
Cloghlea.  During  several  succeeding  nights  the 
same  portentous  fires  threw  up  their  lurid  glai'e 
into  the  calm,  still  sky;  and  day  by  day,  by  castle 
and  town  and  hamlet,  fierce  riders  spurred  hither 
and  thither  to  chief  and  vassal,  summoning  them 
to  take  up  arms,  and  back  the  quarrel  of  their  stout 


•208 


THE  FIRST  AND  LAST 


suzerain,  till  at  length  a  large  and  formidable  army 
was  collected  around  the  castle  of  Sir  William 
Cantoun.  Not  content  with  this  gathering,  how¬ 
ever,  he  sent  for  help  to  O’Keefe,  the  native  and 
hereditary  chief  of  the  whole  country  stretching 
alonsr  the  northern  shore  of  the  Blackwater,  and 
obtained  it,  together  with  the  aid  of  another  Irish 
chief  equally  powerful. 

With  this  formidable  army.  Sir  William  Cantoun 
marched  westward  from  his  castle,  and  began  to  lay 
waste  the  territories  of  the  Baron  of  Fermoy.  After 
going  with  fire  and  sword  along  all  the  eastern  por¬ 
tion  of  the  district,  he  at  length  reached  Gian  worth 
Castle,  and  sat  down  before  its  walls  to  commence 
a  regular  siege.-  A  siege  in  those  days  was  a  very 
different  affair  from  what  it  has  come  to  be  in  more 
modern  times.  There  were  then  no  cannon ;  and 
the  only  method  of  battering  down  walls  consisted 
in  the  use  of  engines,  which,  on  the  introduction  of 
gunpowder,  were  thrown  aside  as  unavailable  in  war¬ 
fare,  and  of  which  we  now  scarcely  remember  the" 
names.  Yet  with  engine,  arbalist,  crossbow,  and  jav¬ 
elin,  Sir  William  Cantoun  plied  the  castle,  till,  in  a 
few  days,  the  besieged  were  reduced  to  sore  dis¬ 
tress.  At  this  stage,  the  Baron  of  Cloghlea  again 
demanded  the  hand  of  Amy  Flemming,  hut  was 
again  refused. 

On  the  fourtli  day  the  sun  that  lit  the  fierce  faces 
of  the  combatants  in  and  around  Glanworth  was 
also  reflected  from  the  points  of  ten  spears  that 


LORDS  OF  FERMOY. 


209 


were  stuck,  handle  downward,  in  the  soft  sward  of 
a  little  glade  in  the  midst  of  the  great  forest  that 
then  clothed  the  back  of  the  wild  mountain  range 
that  walls  in  the  territory  of  Fermoy  to  the  south¬ 
ward,  and  ends  in  the  romantic  peak  of  Corrin 
Thierna.  Their  owners,  as  many  knights,  were 
sitting  lazily  upon  the  grass  beside  them,  enjoying 
their  noontide  meal,  while  their  horses  were  scattered 
along  the  glade  in  the  exercise  of  the  same  agreeable 
occupation.  The  leader  of  this  group  was  a  young 
man  of  great  stature  and  noble  bearing,  with  light-  ^ 
colored  hair,  and  a  fine,  sun-embrowned  visage,  that 
looked  all  the  better  from  a  small  white  scar  that 
extended  obliquely  down  his  high  forehead.  His 
name  was  Richard  de  Rupe,  or  Roche.  His  father, 
Sir  Adam  de  Rupe,  fighting  under  the  banners  of 
Strongbow  and  Fitzstephen,  had  come  into  posses¬ 
sion  of  the  barony  of  Rosscarberry,  and  there  built  a 
magnificent  castle  on  the  river  Bandon,  called  Foul- 

O 

ue-long,  whose  ruins  still  remain  to  attest  its  former 
strength  and  splendor.  On  his  death,  his  son,  Rich¬ 
ard  de  Rupe,  succeeded  him  ;  and  was  on  his  way  on 
the  day  in  question  to  visit  another  strong  castle  of 
his,  on  the  northern  frontier  of  the  county  Cork. 
The  whole  band  were  chatting  gayly  upon  various 
subjects  as  the  meal  proceeded. 

They  were  at  length  disturbed,  however,  by  the 
appearance  of  a  horseman  above  them  on  the  bare 
side  of  a  hill,  who  came  down  at  full  speed  upon 


14 


210 


THE  Fin  ST  AND  LAST 


their  left,  with  the  intention  of  making  his  way 
downward  into  the  southern  plain. 

“  A  prize,  a  prize  !  ”  exclaimed  Sir  Gilbert  Riden- 
ford  and  a  few  other  young  knights,  starting  to  their 
feet,  and  buckling  on  their  helmets.  “By  the  hand 
of  the  Conqueror,  a  prize  and  adventure  both !  ”  And 
they  ran  towards  their  steeds,  which  each  mounted 
at  a  single  bound.  Then,  catching  their  spears  in 
their  hands,  they  sat  looking  towards  their  leader, 
for  liberty  to  ride  after  the  stranger,  who  was  pass- 
^  ing  on  the  left  without  perceiving  them. 

“Away!”  exclaimed  Sir  Richard  de  Rupe.  “Pie 
will  be  but  a  small  prize,  indeed.  But,  if  he  carry 
nothing  else,  he  may  tell  us  some  news ;  for  every 
Irishman  is  chockful  of  that  commodity.” 

Away  dashed  the  wild  young  knights  down  the 
woods,  till  they  came  to  the  bottom  of  a  deep  valley, 
through  which  they  knew  the  strange  horseman 
must  pass;  and  there,  after  much  doubling  and 
twisting,  they  at  length  captured  him,  and  led  him 
in  triumph  to  their  comrades. 

“  Gold,  gold  I  ”  shouted  one  of  them  derisively,  as 
the  captive  came  sullenly  in.  “Search  him,  Sir 
Gilbert :  I  will  wager  he  hath  a  treasure.” 

“  I  will  barter  my  steed,  trappings  and  all,  against 
a  Jew’s  donkey,  but  he  hath  the  elixir  of  life  hid  in 
his  pocket,”  exclaimed  another. 

“What  errand  ridestthou?”  asked  Sir  Richard 
de  Rupe,  in  a  commanding  but  respectful  tone, 
which  drew  an  answer  from  the  captured  horseman. 


LORDS  OF  FERMOY. 


211 


He  told  them  the  substance  of  what  is  related  above, 
and  that  he  was  riding  southward  to  the  castle  of 
Sir  Maurice  Fitzgerald  to  beg  aid  for  his  master,  the 
Baron  of  Fermoy,  in  his  sore  distress. 

“  There !  ”  said  Ridenford,  “  I  told  thee  an  ad¬ 
venture  would  come  of  it ;  and  now  what  is  to  be 
done?” 

“  First,  to  let  the  courier  go,”  answered  de  Rupe. 
“  W e  will  hold  counsel  as  we  ride  along.” 

The  courier  waited  no  further  liberty,  but,  turn¬ 
ing  his  horse,  rode  down  through  the  woods  at  the 
same  headlong  pace  with  which  he  came.  The 
result  of  their  consultation,  as  they  rode  over  the 
range  of  mountains  and  crossed  the  Blackwater, 
was  that  the  nine  knights  should  remain  in  the 
forest  near,  while  their  leader  rode  forward  to  the 
beleao-ured  castle  of  Glanworth,  and  demanded  ad- 
mittance  to  its  lord.  The  warlike  customs  of  those 
days  were  strangly  different  from  those  of  the  pres¬ 
ent.  Sir  Richard  de  Rupe,  on  reaching  the  besie¬ 
ging  army,  at  once  caused  himself  to  be  brought 
before  the  Baron  of  Cloghlea,  and  made  his  request ; 
which  was  granted  without  hesitation  and  with  the 
utmost  courtesy.  And  thus  he  was  admitted  into 
the  castle  of  Glanworth. 

“  Sir  William  Flemming,”  said  he  to  the  old 
baron,  who  received  him  in  the  hall,  “  I  have  come 
to  offer  thee  the  service  of  my  arm  in  thy  strait. 
My  father,  Adam  de  Rupe,  was,  I  believe,  once  thy 
companion-in-arms.” 


212 


THE  FIRST  AND  LAST 


The  baron  took  his  hand  with  a  friendly  grasp. 
“  Ah !  ”  he  said,  “  I  remember  him  well,  and  a  brave 
companion  he  was.  And  thou,  —  thou  art  welcome 
to  my  poor  hall  of  Glanworth ;  although,  God 
wot!”  continued  he,  with  a  sad  smile,  “ I  fear  thy 
single  ai’m  will  make  but  small  change  in  our  affairs ; 
for  we  are  indeed  sore  beset.” 

“  I  have  nine  other  knights  at  my  back,”  said  De 
Rupe.  “  Could  we  not  send  them  word ,  of  thy 
plight,  and  make  a  bold  sally  upon  the  besiegers, 
during  which  they  might  suddenly  mingle  with  the 
combatants,  and  get  entrance  as  we  withdraw  ?  ” 

“  I  fear  no  entrance  can  be  gained  for  more  than 
thee,”  answered  Flemming.  “Yesterday  we  tried 
that  ruse,  to  get  in  a  small  body  of  auxiliaries;  but, 
by  my  faith  !  we  were  all  beaten  back,  and  half  our 
expected  aid  slain.  Save  that  my  old  friend.  Sir 
Maurice  Fitzgerald,  come  speedily  with  a  large 
force  to  relieve  us,  I  fear  me  there  is  but  small  hope 
for  us ;  for  the  bloodv  Oantoun  and  his  followers 
are  pressing  us  too  hotly.” 

“  How  long  canst  thou  hold  out,  in  case  the  aid 
come  ?  ”  asked  De  Rupe. 

“Not  longer  than  another  day,  I  fear  me,”  an¬ 
swered  Flemming.  “  The  foe  are  in  possession  of 
every  available  spot  around  the  castle,  and  have 
already  half  battered  down  the  gates.” 

“  Then,”  said  De  Rupe,  after  a  pause,  “  there  is 
but  one  plan,  and  that  is  to  offer  myself  to  do  battle 
with  axe  and  sword  against  Sir  William  Cantoun 
for  the  hand  of  thy  daughter.” 


LORDS  OF  FERMOY. 


213 


“  It  is  a  brave  plan,”  said  the  baron,  “  and  one  that 
well  befits  thy  father’s  son.  But  I  have  sworn  by 
my  knightly  word,  no  matter  what  haps,  to  let  my 
daughter  choose  for  herself.  If  she  choose  thee  for 
a  husband,  then  I  give  my  consent  to  the  trial  by 
combat:  and  I  doubt  not  but  Cantouii  will  accept 
of  thy  challenge ;  for  whatever  else  he  may  be,  he 
assuredly  is  brave.  I  will  call  my  daughter,  and  do 
thou  propose  thy  plan  to  her  thyself.  ” 

The  beautiful  Amy  Flemming  was  again  brought 
into  the  hall. 

“Fair  lady,”  said  De  Rupe,  “I  would  wish  to  woo 
thee  in  another  and  more  befitting  way,  but  cannot, 
as  thou  seest.  Wilt  thou  consent  that  I  should  do 
battle  with  Sir  William  Cantoun  for  thy  hand? 
With  thy  bright  eyes  to  look  upon  me  in  the  strug¬ 
gle,  I  hope  to  do  my  devoir  as  becomes  a  knight, 
and  free  thy  father  from  his  worst  foe.” 

Amy  scanned  the  fine  face  and  fair  proportions 
of  the  young  knight  with  a  pleased  eye.  There 
was  but  little  time  for  deliberation,  for  even  then 
they  heard  the  foe  hammering  at  the  gate. 

“Yes,”  she  said,  while  a  blush  of  maiden  modesty 
mantled  her  beautiful  face.  “My  father  is  now 
brought  to  sore  distress.  An’  thou  relieve  him  and 
me  from  our  foe,  I  will  be  thy  bride.” 

That  night,  notwithstanding  the  sad  case  of  the 
besieged,  a  merry  revel  was  held  in  the  hall  of 
Gian  worth  Castle.  The  fair  Amy  sat  at  the  board ; 
and,  as  she  talked  to  the  young  De  Rupe,  her  heart 


214 


THE  FIRST  AND  LAST 


confirmed  the  consent  she  was  forced  to  give  so  sud¬ 
denly  the  preceding  evening.  The  next  morning’s 
sun  shone  gayly  down  upon  the  many  bright  objects 
around  the  castle,  —  the  polished  armor  of  the 
knights  as  they  stalked  to  and  fro  directing  the 
movements  of  the  besiegers  ;  the  waving  banners  on 
plain  and  tower;  the  light  lances  of  the  kern;  the 
ponderous  swoi’ds,  bucklers,  and  battle-axes  of  the 
heavy  footmen,  who  were  now  gathering  in  a 
mass  with '  scaling-ladders,  to  make  a  final  attack 
upon  the  besieged.  At  this  juncture,  a  white  flag 
was  suddenly  raised  from  the  highest  tower  of  the 
barbacan,  and  its  appearance  caused  for  a  moment 
a  suspension  of  hostilities  on  both  sides.  Immedi¬ 
ately  after,  a  herald  rode  forth  from  the  gate,  and 
demanded  to  be  brought  into  the, presence  of  the 
Baron  of  Cloghlea. 

“  Sir  William  Cautoun,”  said  the  herald,  “  I  come 
to  offer  thee  single  combat  on  the  part  of  Sir  Rich¬ 
ard  de  Rupe,  good  knight  and  true,  now  in  the 
castle,  for  the  hand  of  the  Lady  Amy.” 

“  And  what  if  I  refuse  ?  ”  answered  the  Knight  of 
Cloghlea,  with  a  bitter  smile.  “The  castle,  father 
and  daughter,  champion  and  all,  will  be  soon  in  my 
hands,  without  the  trouble  of  trial  by  combat.” 

“  Then,”  said  the  herald,  “  Sir  Richard  de  Rupe 
bids  me  say  that  he  will  proclaim  thee  recreant  and 
coward  through  all  the  lands  of  Christendom,  and 
false  to  thy  badge  of  knighthood.” 

“  That  were,  indeed,  a  hard  alternative,”  answered 


LORDS  OF  FERMOY. 


215 


Cantoun.  “  But  it  shall  never  be  said  that  William 
of  Cloghlea  refused  the  challenge  of  any  mortal 
man.  I  accept  thy  defiance,  sir  herald,  and  will 
meet  him  at  noon  with  axe  and  sword,  on  foot,  on 
this  very  spot,  and  in  sight  of  all.” 

Noon  came,  and  saw  the  besiegers  all  gathering 
round  a  level  spot  outside  the  barbacan  gate  of  Glan- 
worth,  and  the  besieged,  with  eager  faces,  crowding 
on  the  walls  to  witness  the  combat ;  while  the  beau¬ 
tiful  Amy  sat  with  her  maids  at  a  high  turret-win¬ 
dow  that  overlooked  the  scene,  her  face  pale  and 
her  heart  throbbing,  and  her  white  hands  clasped  in 
prayer  for  the  success  of  her  young  and  gallant 
champion.  W^hat  must  have  been  her  feelings  when 
at  length  she  saw  the  two  adversaries  approach  each 
other  warily,  under  the  cover  of  their  broad  shields, 
each  with  axe  in  hand,  poised  and  ready  to  begin 
the  combat? 

And  now  the  axes  were  crossed,  and  again  came 
down  for  some  time  alternately,  with  loud  clanging, 
upon  the  interposed  shields.  Hotter  and  hotter 
grew  the  combat,  till  at  last  the  axe  of  de  Rupe 
crashed  in  through  the  shoulder-plate  of  Cantoun, 
making  the  blood  flow  out  upon  his  arm  and  breast. 
This  aroused  the  full  fury  of  Sir  William  Cantoun, 
who  was  one  of  the  most  celebrated  knights  of  his 
time  for  strength  and  prowess.  He  raised  his  axe 
suddenly,  as  if  about  to  deliver  a  heavy  blow  upon 
the  hip  of  de  Rupe ;  but,  changing  the  direction  of 
the  stroke,  the  ponderous  weapon  came  down  with 


216 


THE  EIRST  AND  LAST 


full  force  upon  the  helmet  of  his  antagonist,  making 
him  reel  backward  a  few  paces,  and  at  length  fall 
to  the  ground  over  the  body  of  a  dead  archer  that 
lay  behind  him.  Now  this  archer  had  been  slain  in 
the  very  act  of  poising  his  crossbow,  which  lay 
beside  him  drawn,  and  with  the  arrow  in,  under  the 
very  hand  of  de  Rupe  as  he  fell.  Whether  it  was 
according  to  the  laws  of  single  combat,  on  the  part 
of  de  Rupe,  we  will  not  say;  but,  as  he  fell,  he 
grasped  the  drawn  crossbow  in  his  hand,  raised  it 
as  he  half  lay  upon  the  ground,  and  discharged  it  at 
his  adversary  as  he  advanced  to  despatch  him, 
piercing  him  with  the  arrow  through  one  of  the 
joints  of  his  armor.  The  arrow  entered  Sir  William 
Cantoun’s'left  side,  and  pierced  in  an  upward  direc¬ 
tion  through  his  heart ;  on  which  he  fell  heavily  to 
the  ground,  and  in  a  few  moments  expired.  His 
body  was  borne  away  with  loud  lamentations  by 
his  sorrowing  vassals :  O’Keefe  and  the  other  chief¬ 
tains  departed  with  their  followers,  and  Sir  William 
Flemming  was  left  once  more  in  peaceable  posses¬ 
sion  of  his  castle  and  domains.  The  lovely  Amy 
and  her  champion  were  soon  after  married.  The 
young  knights  assisted  at  the  bridal  ceremony,  and 
wondered  at,  and  laughed  heartily  over,  the  good 
fortune  of  their  leader. 

“By  my  fay !”  said  Sir  Gilbert  Ridenford  to  Can- 
temar,  his  brother-in-arms,  after  they  had  danced  a 
few  merry  measures  down  the  great  hall,  “  I  told 
thee  this  was  an  enchanted  land.  I  will  ride  forth 


LORDS  OF  FERMOY. 


217 


to-morrow  in  quest  of  an  adventure  for  myself,  and 
try  and  win  a  fair  bride  like  our  leader.” 

Amy  was  the  sole  heiress  of  Sir  William  Flem¬ 
ming;  and,  at  his  death,  her  husband,  in  her  right, 
succeeded  to  the  possession  of  the  fair  territory  of 
Fermoy,  which  was  in  his  lifetime  raised  to  a  lord- 
ship.  And  thus  Sir  Richard  de  Rupe,  or  Roche, 
won  those  fertile  lands,  and  became  the  first  lord  of 
Fermoy,  and  the  progenitor  of  a  long  line  of  barons, 
distinguished  for  their  ju’incely  hospitality,  their 
prowess,  and  often  for  their  patriotic  devotedness  to 
the  cause  of  their  native  land. 

Pass  we  now  over  a  period  of  some  centuries, 
during  which  the  successive  lords  of  Fermoy  lived, 
loved,  fought,  and  died  within  their  fair  territory, 
like  brave  Norman-Irish  nobles  as  they  were,  till  we 
come  to  that  stormy  time  when  Ireland  and  the 
sister  island  groaned  beneath  the  iron  rule  of  the 
victorious  usurper,  Cromwell.  Maurice,  eighth  Vis¬ 
count  Fermoy,  was  at  this  time  a  man  in  the  prime 
of  life.  His  father  David,  after  suffering  severely  in 
the  great  Desmond  insurrection  of  1598,  was  recom¬ 
pensed  for  his  losses  in  the  succeeding  reign.  Sev¬ 
eral  large  grants  of  land,  partly  from  the  forfeited 
estates  of  the  Earl  of  Desmond,  were  given  him  by 
James  the  First ;  and,  living  peaceably  for  along  pe¬ 
riod  in  his  ancestral  home,  he  at  length  became  one 
of  the  richest  noblemen  in  Ireland.  After  the  acces¬ 
sion  of  the  unfortunate  Charles  to  the  throne  of 
England,  and  the  breaking  out  of  the  great  insur- 


218 


THE  FIRST  AND  LAST 


rection  of  1641  in  Ireland,  this  David  retired  to 
France  with  his  family,  and  a  regiment  he  had 
raised  within  his  own  territory,  and  there  died,  leav¬ 
ing  his  estates,  worth,  it  is  said,  fifty  thousand  pounds 
yearly,  to  his  eldest  son  Maurice,  the  eighth  lord  of 
Fermoy. 

The  estates  to  which  Maurice  succeeded  were, 
however,  in  a  very  insecure  position  from  the  sad 
state  of  the  country  at  the  time.  North  and  south, 
east  and  west,  the  baleful  fires  of  war  were  glaring 
redly  throughout  the  land.  Sanctimonious  Puritan, 
hot-headed  native  chief,  and  cautious  noble  of  the 
Pale, were  then  battling  with  savage  ferocity;  some 
for  the  rebellious  Parliament,  some  for  the  weal  of 
their  native  land,  some  for  the  unfortunate  King 
Charles,  and  a  great  many,  with  sorrow  be  it  said, 
for  their  own  aggrandizement. 

Among  those  that  held  stoutly  and  faithfully  to 
the  last  to  the  colors  of  both  king  and  country  was 
Maurice  of  Fermoy.  When  the  oppressed  Catho¬ 
lics,  at  length  banded  together,  formed  the  Confed¬ 
eration,  and  sent  their  deputies  to  Kilkenny  to  re¬ 
dress  their  wrongs.  Viscount  Fermoy  took  his  place 
in'  the  Parliament  then  formed  among  the  Peers, 
while  several  gentlemen  of  his  own  name  attended 
the  Commons.  This  was  in  the  stormy  year  1646. 
On  the  breaking  up  of  the  Confederation,  Vis¬ 
count  Fermoy,  with  many  of  the  gentlemen  of  his 
house,  again  took  up  arms  against  Cromwell  and  his 
generals  ;  but  gained  by  his  loyalty  only  defeat  and 


LORDS  OF  FERMOY. 


219 


forfeiture.  He  fled,  an  outlawed  man,  to  Flanders, 
and  thus  lost  the  castled  home  and  fair  patrimony 
won  so  gallantly  by  his  great  ancestor.  Sir  Richard 
de  Rupe.  We  will  follow  him  a  little  further,  how¬ 
ever,  and  show  how  faithfully  he  still  adhered  to  his 
iinscrupulous  monarch,  and  how  he  was  rewarded 
for  his  devotedness. 

In  a  somewhat  small  room  in  an  ancient  Flemish 
town,  towards  the  close  of  the  last  year  of  the  ban¬ 
ishment  of  Charles  the  Second,  that  monarch  sat 
with  a  few  of  his  exiled  nobles  around  a  table,  on 
one  end  of  which  were  arranged  the  materials  for  a 
supper.  Charles  and  his  comrades  at  this  time  led 
a  somewhat  rakish  life,  notwithstanding  their  pov¬ 
erty  and  their  many  troubles.  On  the  evening  in 
question,  he  and  two  of  his  favorites  were  sitting  at 
the  head  of  the  table,  and  deeply  engaged  in  a  game, 
then  very  fashionable,  namely,  primero.  A  small 
heap  of  gold  coins  was  placed  before  each  of  the 
players,  while  another  —  the  stake  —  lay  at  the  foot 
of  the  little  lamp  that  gave  them  light  for  their 
game.  A  jovial  smile  played  over  the  features  of 
the  “merry  monarch,”  as  he  raised  the  last  card 
of  his  deal,  and  threw  it  triumphantly  upon  those  of 
his  companions. 

:  “Ha!”  he  exclaimed,  laughing,  “two  hearts, — 

two  hearts,  and  my  bonnie  ace  upon  their  necks! 
By  my  sovereign  word  !  an’  I  win  this,  I  shall  be  a 
second  Croesus  ere  the  morning.  The  game  is 
mine.”  And  he  swept  the  stake  over  to  his  side. 


220 


THE  FIRST  AND  LAST 


“My  lord,”  said  one  of  the  players,  smiling,  “  for¬ 
tune  seems  to  smile  continually  upon  thy  head  to¬ 
night.  And  touching  that  same  golden  monarch 
your  majesty  was  pleased  to  name  just  now,  had 
we  him  here,  thou  wert  sure  to  succeed  to  his  treas¬ 
ures.  But,  with  us  poor  spendthrifts,  thou  wilt  not 
be  much  richer,  an’  thou  win  all  our  store.” 

“  By  my  father’s  wise  head !  no,”  said  the  mon¬ 
arch,  glancing  at  the  diminutive  heaps  of  gold. 
“  But,  come !  another  game,  and  a  fig  for  Dame 
Fortune,  that  will  not  stand  to  me  in  sterner  play 
than  this  !  ”  And  he  took  up  the  cards,  and  began 
shuffling  and  dealing  them  with  no  inexpert  hand. 

Game  after  game  now,  however,  went  against  the 
monarch.  The  heap  of  gold,  whose  size  he  had 
augmented  in  the  beginning  of  the  evening,  now 
began  to  dwindle  away  gradually,  till  at  last  he  was 
reduced  to  one  solitary  coin.  The  cards  were  dealt 
once  more,  and  began  to  fly  down  quickly  upon  the 
table. 

“Now  for  a  dash  in  Dame  Fortune’s  face!”  said 
the  king,  as  he  held  again  his  last  card  in  his  hand, 
and  threw  it.  “Hal  by  my  kingly  hand!  lost, — 
lost !  ”  continued  he  as  he  saw  the  game  go  against 
him.  “  And  now,  to  borrow,  —  to  borrow !  who  will 
'lend?” 

“  Borrow  and  beg,”  exclaimed  the  young  noble¬ 
man  to  his  left,  with  a  careless  laugh,  “by  my 
knightly  word  !  but  they  are  trades  we  are  all  expert 
in  now-a-days.  I  will  become  your  majesty’s  treas- 


LORDS  OF  FERMOY. 


221 


iirer  for  the  present,  and,  unlike  the  stubborn,  crop- 
eared  Parliament,  supply  thy  wants  to  the  uttermost 
of  my  poor  means.”  And  he  handed  over  the  greater 
part  of  his  supply  to  the  king.  At  that  moment  a 
lackey  entered  the  apartment,  and  stood  respectfully 
near  the  door. 

“  Ha  !  Hilson,  what  now  ?  ”  said  the  king,  arran¬ 
ging  the  little  heap  of  gold  before  him. 

“Sire,”  answered  the  attendant,  “a  gentleman  is 
now  in  the  waiting-room,  who  craves  speech  with 
your  majesty.” 

“  His  name  ?  his  name  ?  ”  inquired  the  king,  with 
a  lazy  yawn. 

“  He  gave  no  name,  sire,”  answered  the  attendant, 
“but  he  bade  me  tell  your  majesty  that  he  was 
your  friend  of  Mayence.” 

“  My  friend  of  Mayence,”  said  the  king.  “  Ah  !  ” 
continued  he  to  his  companions,  “  I  have  good  reason 
to  remember  him.  He  is  one  of  my  wild  Irish  lords, 
who,  not  content  to  lose  his  patrimony  in  my  cause, 
still  contrives  to  help  me  in  my  troubles.  Marry ! 
I  would  wish  there  were  many  like  him.  Send  him 
into  our  presence,  Hilson ;  but,  ere  he  comes,”  and 
he  gave  a  light  and  careless  laugh,  “we  must  put 
our  trumps  and  aces  from  before  his  roving  eyes. 
Away  with  them,  for  I  know  what  he  brings ;  and 
now  to  supper.” 

The  cards  were  removed  by  one  of  the  young 
noblemen,  and  the  king  and  his  companions  were 
seated  innocently  at  supper  as  the  stranger  .entered. 


222 


THE  FIRST  AND  LAST 


The  latter  was  muffled  in  the  long  military  cloak  of 
the  period  ;  and  as  he  stepped  over  respectfully,  and 
dropped  on  one  knee  before  the  king,  the  young 
noblemen  could  not  help  casting  a  glance  of  ap¬ 
proval  at  each  other  at  his  manly  bearing,  tall  fig¬ 
ure,  and  handsome,  bronzed  countenance. 

“  Arise,  my  Lord  of  Fermoy,”  said  the  king  :  “  thou 
art  welcome  to  our  poor  lodging.  It  grieves  us  we 
cannot  welcome  thee  in  better  state ;  but  come, 
arise,  and  partake  with  us  of  this  sorry  fare  our  re¬ 
bellious  subjects  have  driven  us  to  subsist  on.” 

“  My  liege,”  answered  Maurice,  Lord  of  F ermoy 
(for  it  was  he),  “  before  I  rise,  let  me  present  your 
majesty  with  this.”  And  he  produced  a  heavy  bag 
of  gold  from  under  his  long  cloak.  “  It  is  the  poor 
pay  of  myself  and  some  of  my  kinsmen.  Small  as 
it  is,  — it  is  all  we  have,  —  I  trust  it  may  relieve  thy 
necessities  for  a  short  time.  A  day  will  soon  come, 
I  trust,  when  thou  wilt  hold  thine  own  again,  and 
have  small  need  of  the  poor  contributions  of  thy 
devoted  subjects.”  And  he  laid  the  bag  of  gold  upon 
the  table  before  the  king. 

“We  accept  of  it,  my  Lord  of  Fermoy,”  said  the 
king,  raising  him,  “  and  with  the  more  pleasure  that 
the  day  is  coming  —  yes,  times  are  changing  mo¬ 
mently  in  our  favor  —  when  we  can  recompense 
thee  tenfold  for  this  and  many  another  kindness. 
The  day  that  sees  us  restored  to  our  throne  and  to 
our  lights  shall  also  see  thee  in  the  enjoyment  of 
thy  lost  fends  and  thy  natiw  home.  Arise,  and  let 
us  to  supper.” 


LORDS  OF  FERMOY. 


223 


And  thus  Maurice,  Lord  of  Fermoy,  and  his  brave 
kinsmen,  spent  their  pay  during  tlieir  military  ser¬ 
vice  in  Flanders.  They  shared  it  with  their  king 
during  his  exile ;  and,  when  the  Pi’otector  died,  and 
Charles  II.  was  restored  to  his  throne,  they  natu¬ 
rally  expected  a  reversal  of  their  attainder,  and  a 
return  to  their  native  land  and  to  their  homes  and 
properties.  But  when  Viscount  Fermoy,  and  the 
numerous  kinsmen  of  his  that  had  lost  their  estates 
in  the  cause  of  the  king  and  his  unfortunate  prede¬ 
cessor,  presented  their  petition  at  court,  the  light 
and  faithless  Charles  the  Second,  instead  of  remem¬ 
bering  their  devotedness  and  his  own  plighted 
word,  only  laughed  at  them,  put  them  off  from  day 
to  day,  and  at  length,  in  his  “  Declaration  of  Royal 
Gratitude,”  named  one  of  that  gallant  house,  Caj)t. 
Miles  Roche,  only,  as  eligible  for  reward  for  “  ser¬ 
vices  beyond  the  sea.”  Viscount  Fermoy,  after  the 
failure  of  his  hopes  and  the  loss  of  his  noble  patri¬ 
mony,  left  his  native  land  forever,  and  died  with  a 
broken  heart  far  away  in  a  foreign  land,  illustrating 
a  lesson  that  was  well  taught  to  the  head  of  many 
a  gallant  house  in  those  troublous  days  by  the 
“merry  monarch,”  namely,  “put  not  thy  trust  in 
princes.” 


The  Chase  from  the  Hostel. 

A  LEGEND  OF  MALLOW. 


IN  the  days  of  the  Williamite  wars,  Mallow  was 
one  of  the  most  important  military  stations  in 
the  south  of  Ireland,  The  town  at  this  period  — 
that  is,  the  newly-built  portion  of  it  —  consisted  of 
between  two  and  three  hundred  houses,  many  of 
which  were  strongly  built,  and  fitted  for  defence  in 
case  of  siege.  The  old  portion  of  the  town,  or,  as  it 
was  called  by  the  inhabitants,  Ballydaheen,  lay  on 
the  southern  bank  of  the  Black  water,  and  communi¬ 
cated  with  its  new  and  more  fashionable  neighbor 
by  a  long,  narrow,  stone  bridge,  easily  fortified,  and 
rendered  impassable  in  time  of  war  by  its  proxim¬ 
ity  to  the  castle  which  commanded  it.  Ballydaheen 
at  that  time  consisted  almost  exclusively  of  houses 
of  entertainment  for  man  and  horse ;  but,  of  all  its 
hostels,  not  one  was  half  so  well  patronized,  by  peas¬ 
ant,  soldier,  and  Rapparee,  as  that  of  Murty  Goold, 
which  Hy  a  few  perches  up  a  narrow  street  that 

224 


THE  CHASE  FROM  THE  HOSTEL. 


225 


opened  into  the  more  public  one  which  led  to  the 
new  town  over  the  bridge.  Various  causes  tended 
to  the  success  of  Murty’s  hostel ;  the  principal  of 
which  w’ere,  that  he  was  known  in  Ballydaheen  and 
the  wide  country  round  to  be  a  good  man,  and  true 
in  the  cause  of  King  James,  to  be  the  jolliest  com¬ 
panion  over  the  can  that  was  ever  born  in  Mallow, 
and  that  in  his  shop  were  to  be  found  the  best  and 
cheapest  beer,  brandy,  wine,  and  itsquehaugh  in 
Munster. 

It  was  a  hot  August  day,  somewhat  more  than  a 
month  after  the  battle  of  the  Boyne,  and  Murty 
Goold  was  sitting  in  his  shop  before  a  half-emptied 
can  of  beer,  singing  to  himself  a  consolatory  lament 
over  the  fallen  fortunes  of  King  James,  when  he 
was  aroused  from  his  euphonious  reveries  by  the 
halting  of  a  pair  of  horsemen  at  his  door.  Leaving 
both  his  can  of  beer  and  desolation  of  spirit  behind 
him,  Murty  hastened  out  with  a  sudden  and  hilari¬ 
ous  glow  on  his  countenance  to  welcome  his  custom¬ 
ers,  who,  after  directing  their  horses  to  be  led  into 
the  stable  at  the  back  of  the  premises,  walked  into 
the  drinking-room  inside  the  shop. 

An’  now,”  said  Murty,  as  he  entered  the  room, 
after  attending  to  the  wants  of  the  horses,  “in  the 
name  o’  the  fiend !  Theige  O’Cooney  an’  Donogh 
O’Brin  both,  wliat  brings  ye  here  at  this  time  o’  da}', 
when  Ginoral  S’gravenmore  an’  his  bloody  Danes  are 
in  the  town  ?  An’,”  he  continued,  as  the  two  horse¬ 

men  threw  off  their  long  cothamoi'es^  and  laid  them 

15 


226 


THE  CHASE  FROM  THE  HOSTEL. 


on  the  table,  “  when  ye  came  at  all,  why  did  ye  come 
in  yeer  back-an’-breasts  an’  helmets,  an’  wid  sword 
an’  pistol  an’  gun,  like  two  ginerals  of  cavalthry?” 

“I’ll  tell  you  what,  Murt,”  answered  Theige 
O’Cooney,  “myself  an’  this  nate  step-brother  o’ 
mine,  Donough,  were  afther  ridin’  from  Duhallow 
undor  the  hot  sun,  till  our  throats  became  as  dry  as 
the  pipe  o’  Rodeen  Gow’s  bellows  \  an’  we  said  to 
ourselves,  as  we  gained  the  top  o’  the  hill  above, 
that  the  devil  resave  the  step  farther  we’d  ride  with¬ 
out  paying  Murty  Goold  a  visit,  an’  drinking  some 
o’  his  beer,  —  a  rattling  can  of  it,  Murt,  What  do 
we  care  about  Gineral  Skavinger  an’  his  blue-coated 
Danes  ?  ” 

“Arrah!  what  Danes?”  said  Donogh  O’Brin. 
“When  they  surrounded  Theige  an’  myself  on  the 
Inch  beyant,  the  day  that  the  MacDonogh  an’  his 
army  were  driven  from  before  the  town,  didn’t  we 
cut  thro’  them,  the  set  o’  cowardly  fools,  —  didn’t 
we  slash  thro’  them,  I  say,  side  by  side,  an’  soord  in 
hand,  as  we’d  go  thro’  a  bank  o’  rotten  sedge  by  the 
river  shore?  An’  are  we  afraid  o’  them  now? 
Arrah !  bring  in  the  beer ;  an’  you  an’  I  an  Theige 
will  have  a  roarin’  bout  at  the  tankard,  if  ould 
Skravinger  and  his  blue-coats  were  burnin’  the  house 
around  us.” 

“Very  well,”  said  Murty;  “but,  in  the  manetime, 
we’ll  put  Shaneen  the  Hawk  on  the  watch,  for  fear 
o’  their  coming  on  us  opawares.  Here,  Shaneen  !  ” 
he  continued,  as  he  went  out  to  the  shop,  and 


THE  CHASE  FROM  THE  HOSTEL. 


227 


addressed  himself  to  a  swarthy,  ’cute-eyed,  little 
atomy  of  a  boy  that  stood  at  the  door.  “  Off  with 
you  to  the  bridge,  an’  be  on  the  look-out  for  the 
blue-coats ;  for  you  know,  as  well  as  I  do,  who’s  in¬ 
side.”  Shaneen  the  Hawk  started  off  on  the  instant, 
while  his  master  went  to  a  huge  barrel  at  the  end  of 
the  shop,  and  commenced  drawing  the  beer,  accom¬ 
panying  the  operation  with  the  remainder  of  that 
elegiac  and  melancholious  strain  in  which  he  was 
interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  the  two  Rapparee 
horsemen. 

Theige  O’Cooney  and  Donogh  O’Brin,  his  step¬ 
brother,  were  at  that  time,  and  in  that  broad  district, 
two  Rapparee  leaders  of  valor  and  renown,  whose 
exploits  against  the  Williamite  soldiers  are  still 
sung  in  many  a  rude  ballad,  and  narrated  by  the 
peasantry  in  wild  and  stirring  legends,  around  their 
winter  firesides.  Each  was  in  the  prime  of  life,  and 
somewhat  above  the  middle  stature ;  each  possessed 
that  iron,  brawny,  and  well-knit  frame  that  enables 
its  possessor  to  undergo  any  amount  of  fatigue  with¬ 
out  flagging;  and  in  the  bright  eye  and  darkly- 
bronzed  features  of  both  could  be  read  that  jovial 
and  headlong  bravery  which  characterized  many  a 
gallant  Rapparee  of  that  warlike  time.  While 
Murty  was  drawing  the  beer,  Theige  and  his  step¬ 
brother  were  depositing  their  weapons  of  offence  on 
the  table,  in  order  to  be  prepared  for  any  sudden 
emergency ;  and,  on  the  entrance  of  the  jolly  land¬ 
lord  with  two  foaming  cans,  pointed  out  to  him  with 
much  satisfaction  their  formidable  array. 


228 


THE  CHASE  FROM  THE  HOSTEL. 


“  Look,”  exclaimed  Theige,  seizing  one  of  the  cans 
of  beer,  and  taking  a  long  and  copious  draught, 
“look  at  those,  man,  and  say  how  would  the^blue- 
coats  like  a  taste  o’  them.  There  are  two  blunder- 
busses  with  twenty  bullets  in  each ;  and  there  are  four 
pistols  that  myself  an’  Donogh  took  from  the  two 
trooper  captains  we  killed  in  the  fray  of  Barna. 
An’  with  this,  an’  this,”  he  continued,  pointing  to 
the  long  and  heavy  swords  they  wore  at  their  sides, 
“  don’t  you  think  we’re  sale  in  spending  a  few  jovial 
hours,  or  a  jolly  night  even,  under  your  sign  o’  the 
Crowin’  Cock,  in  Ballydaheen?  Here’s  to  you, 
Murt,  an’  to  you,  Donogh ;  an’  may  all  our  foes  fol¬ 
low  the  sowl  o’  Schomberg,  the  ould  sinner  !  ” 

“I  cannot  drink  to  that,”  said  Donogh,  “  while 
Murt  is  empty-handed.  Off  with  you,  Murt,  an’ 
bring  in  a  can  for  yourself^  an’  then  we’ll  drink  to 
the  tatheration  of  our  foes,  with  Theige.” 

Murt  obeyed  the  mandate  with  unusual  celerity, 
and  returned  with  a  well-filled  tankard.  “  Here,” 
he  said,  “  I’ll  drink  your  toast  in  the  words  o’  the 
song  that  Gulielmis  O’Callaghan,  the  Kanturk 
schoolmaster,  made  a  few  hours  before  he  was 
hanged  by  S’gravenmore’s  troopers  :  — 

“  ‘  Bad  luck  to  ould  bandy-legged  Schomberg, 

King  William  and  Mary  also  ! 

For  ’tis  they  that  did  wather  ould  Ireland 
With  bloodshed  an’  murther  an’  woe. 

Ould  Schomberg - ’ 

“  Begad  !  I  forget  the  rest.  But,  as  to  the  Crowin’ 


THE  CHASE  FROM  THE  HOSTEL. 


229 


Cock,  there’s  a  bird  outside  on  the  bridge,  in  the 
shape  o’  Shaneen  the  Hawk,  that  I  think  will  crow, 
an’  give  you  warnin’  o’  S’gravenraore’s  troopers.” 

“  Sowl  o’  my  body,  man  !  ”  exclaimed  Donogh, 
“  did  the  ould  Skavinger  an’  his  troopers  ever  skin 
you  alive,  that  you  have  him  so  often  on  your 
tongue  with  thrimblin’  and  terror  ?  Here,  man, 
give  us  another  can  o’ beer;  an’  Theige  there  will 
give  us  a  song  instead  o’  those  murtherin’  toasts  he’s 
so  very  fond  o’  dhrinkin’.  ” 

“No,”  exclaimed  Theige,  “I  never  sing  a  song 
till  after  finishing  the  fourth  can  o’  beer,  an’  even 
then  I  must  have  a  flagon  o’  wine  or  brandy  to 
smoothen  my  windpipe  before  I  begin.” 

In  process  of  time  the  fourth  can  was  finished, 
together  with  a  few  tankards  of  wine  into  the  bar- 
gain  ;  and  Theige,  on  being  asked  for  his  song,  sat 
back  with  great  hilarity  in  his  chair,  and  began  a 
sonorous  strain  in  the  vernacular,  of  which  the  fol¬ 
lowing  is  a  translation  :  — 

“MOLL  ROONE. 

“  There’s  a  girl  in  Kilmurry,  —  my  own  loved  one,  — 

The  loveliest  colleen  that  the  sun  shines  on  : 

Pier  eyes  are  as  bright  as  the  May- tide  moon, 

And  the  devil  a  girl  like  my  own  Moll  Roone  ! 

I  mounted  my  steed  in  the  evening  brown. 

And  away  I  spurred  till  the  storm  came  down. 

Away  over  mountains  and  moorlands  dun. 

Till  I  came  to  the  cottage  of  my  own  Moll  Roone. 


230 


THE  CHASE  FROM  THE  HOSTEL. 


I  sat  me  down  by  the  bogwood  fire, 

And  I  said  that  her  love  was  my  heart’s  desire  ; 

And  she  gave  me  her  love,  —  oh  !  she  granted  my  boon. 
And  my  heart  was  glad  for  my  own  Moll  Koone. 

Come !  what  is  the  use  of  a  brave  brown  steed. 

But  to  spur  to  the  doing  of  a  gallant  deed  1 
And  what  is  the  use  of  a  sword  or  gun. 

But  to  fight  for  a  girl  like  my  own  Moll  Roone  ? 

As  I  rode  down  the  mountains  one  Saturday  night. 

The  valley  below  was  one  blaze  of  light  ; 

And  I  found  out  its  meaning  full  sadly  and  soon, 

’Twas  the  foe  fired  the  cottage  of  my  own  Moll  Roone. 

I  spurred  thro’  Blackwater,  o’er  brake  and  moor, 

I  spurred  thro’  the  foe  to  her  cottage  door  : 

There  my  sword  cleft  the  skull  of  a  Dutch  dragoon. 

And  I  bore  away  in  triumph  my  own  Moll  Roone.” 

“  Hurra !  ”  exclaimed  Donogh,  at  the  termination 
of  the  song,  “  wasn’t  that  nate,  Hurt  ?  An’  be  the 
morthial  gor  o’  war !  but  every  word  in  it  is  true. 
Another  flagon  o’  wine,  Murt,  till  we  drink  success 
to  Theige’s  windpipe,  an’  confusion  to  our  foes.” 

“By  the  faith  of  a  true  man!”  exclaimed  Murt, 
with  a  ludicrous  attempt  at  feigning  terror  on  his 
jolly  countenance,  “but,  if  Shaneen  the  Hawk’s  face 
speaks  truth,  both  of  you  will  have  somethin’  to 
do  to  bear  away  your  own  carcasses  in  triumph  from 
ould  S’gravenmore  an’  his  blue  dragoons.” 

“They’re  cornin’!  they’re  cornin’!”  said  Shaneen, 
as  he  rushed  into  the  room  ;  “  the  bloody  throopers 


THE  CHA^  FROM  THE  HOSTEL. 


231 


are  cornin’  to  kill  an’  quartlier  an’  murther  every 
mother’s  sowl  o’  ye.  I  thought  they  wei-e  only 
settin’  otF  for  Kanturk,  bad  luck  to  them !  but  they 
circumwinted  me,  an’  turned  back  in  a  gallop  over 

the  bridge  ;  an’ - listen  !  listen,  Theige  !  here 

they  come  rattlin’  up  the  street !  Bad  luck  to  Brian 
Born,  the  morthial  ould  thief,  that  didn’t  kill  every 
murthurin’  Dane  in  the  uniwersal  world,  when  he 
had  them  under  his  thumb-nail !  ” 

“  Give  us  another  tankard,  Murt,  ”  exclaimed 
both  the  brothers,  as  they  started  up  and  seized 
their  arms.  “An’  you,  Shaneen  Brighteye,  away 
with  you  into  the  stable,”  said  Theige,  “  an’  lade  the 
horses  into  the  kitchen,  an’  have  them  ready  to 
bring  out  through  the  shop-door  when  we  want 
them.  An’  now,  Murt,”  continued  he,  as  he  seized 
his  tankard,  “  here  is  death  to  our  foes  !  Whatever 
men  lie  on  the  ground  when  all  is  over,  be  sure  to 
search  their  pockets  well ;  ‘  for  they  are  all  laden 
with  the  spoil,  the  goold,  an’  riches  of  our  native 
land.” 

The  clatter  of  many  horses  was  now  heard  out¬ 
side  in  the  street,  together  with  the  words  of  com¬ 
mand  directing  the  men  to  wheel  right  and  left,  and 
block  up  the  door  at  either  side.  Another  officer 
was  heard  directing  a  party  of  men  to  hurry  round 
and  occupy  the  backyard  and  stables,  in  case  the 
Rapparees  should  make  an  attempt  to  escape  in  that 
direction.  Shaneen  the  Hawk  now  rushed  in. 

“They’re  back  in  the  stables,  Theige,”  he  ex- 


232 


THE  CHASE  FROM  THE  HOSTEL. 


claimed  ;  “but  the  horses  are  in  the  kitchen,  an’  the 
door  is  boulted  inside.  An’  now,  Murt,”  continued 
the  brave  little  fellow,  “  give  me  the  hatchet  in  the 
shop  ;  an’  the  first  Dane  that  puts  his  head  in  thro’ 
the  window  for  a  peep,  I  will  chop  it  off,  as  Mur- 
rogh  na  Thua  did  to  the  Spy  of  Ballar.” 

All  was  silent  now  within  and  without.  At 
length  a  voice  was  heard  outside,  commanding  the 
two  brave  brothers  to  come  forth,  and  submit  to  the 
sad  doom  that  awaited  them.  “  Come  forth,”  it  said, 
“  ye  Amoritish  dogs,  and  die  the  death  to  which  ye 
were  predestined  from  the  beginning.  I  thank  the 
God  of  the  true  and  chosen,  that  has  ordained  me, 
Zerubabel  Stubbs,  his  unworthy  servant,  to  be  the 
instrument  of  your  destruction.  Come  forth,  I  say; 
for  the  sword  is  made  sharp  for  your  rebellious 
bodies,  and  the  cord  is  slipperied  with  the  grease  of 
swine  for  your  lying  throats,  that  oft  raised  the  cry 
for  the  massacre  of  the  chosen  of  the  Lord,  in  the 
day  of  battle.” 

“  It  is  ould  Babel  Stubbs,  the  informer,”  exclaimed 
Donogh ;  “  but  his  hour  is  come.” 

“  An’  now,”  said  Murty  Goold,  in  a  whisper,  “  if 
ye’re  to  be  off,  oflT  with  ye  :  but  ’tis  rairaclis  if  ye’re 
not  caught,  like  two  foxes  in  a  thrap  ;  for,  as  I  was 
givin’  the  hatchet  to  Shaneen,  I  cast  an  eye  out, 
and  saw  the  narrow  street  blocked  up  at  each  side 
o’  the  door  with  a  press  o’  min,  soord  in  hand.” 

“We’ll  make  a  road  through  them,”  replied 
Theige,  “  like  Miles  the  Slasher  made  through  the 


THE  CHASE  FROM  THE  HOSTEL. 


233 


Scotch  at  the  Battle  o’  Benburb.  An’  now,  Don- 
ogh,”  he  continued,  “look  to  the  primin’  o’  your 
blunderbuss,  an’  follow  me.” 

With  their  pistols  in  their  belts,  and  their  blun¬ 
derbusses  ready  cocked  in  their  hands,  Theige  and 
Donogh  went  side  by  side  to  the  door,  at  each  side 
of  which,  in  the  narrow  street,  the  dragoons  were 
ranged  in  fours,  on  the  watch,  awaiting  their  exit. 
Little  did  Zerubabel  Stubbs  dream  of  the  answer  he 
and  his  host  were  to  get  to  his  alluring  summons. 

“An’ ‘now,  Donogh,”  said  Theige,  in  a  whisper, 
“let  you  take  the  murthurin’  dogs  to  the  left,  —  an’ 
be  sure  not  to  miss  ould  Babel  Stubbs,  —  an’  I’ll 
take  the  robbin’  wolves  to  the  right.  Ready !  ”  he 
shouted,  “hurra  for  Righ  Shamus,  an’  his  brave  men 
that  now  range  the  wood !  ” 

And,  at  the  word,  the  two  blunderbusses  were 
discharged  with  deadly  effect,  right  and  left,  bring¬ 
ing  down  Babel  Stubbs  and  six  or  eight  troopers  at 
one  side,  and  about  the  same  number  killed  and 
wounded  on  the  other.  A  scene  of  the  wildest  con¬ 
fusion  ensued.  Wounded  horses  leaped  and  neighed 
in  terror,  stumbled  and  kicked,  and  fell  in  the  nar¬ 
row  street;  and  the  remaining  troopers,  wheeling 
round  their  terrified  steeds,  fled  in  blind  panic  from 
their  position  down  the  narrow  lanes  of  Ballyda- 
heen. 

“  Out  with  the  horses,  Shaneen,”  exclaimed 
Theige,  as  he  looked  around,  “out  with  them, 
quick;  for  now  is  our  time,  while  the  thremblin’ 
fools  are  scatthered.” 


234 


THE  CHASE  FROM  THE  HOSTEL. 


Shaneen  the  Hawk,  still  holding  the  hatchet  in 
his  hand,  led  out  the  horses,  one  after  the  other, 
into  the  street. 

“Blood  o’  my  body!  Shaneen,”  said  Donogh, 
vaulting  into  his  saddle,  “  look  at  ould  Babel’s 
fingei’,  the  perjured  ould  son  o’  Satan:  there  is  the 
very  ring  he  cut  from  your  mother’s  finger  on  the 
day  that  she  an’  your  father  an’  all  were  murdered 
by  the  throops  at  the  Ford  o’  the  Mill.” 

Shaneen  sprang  upon  the  dead  body  of  Zeruba- 
bel  Stubbs  with  a  wild  cry ;  and,  with  a  blow  of  the 
hatchet,  severed  the  finger  that  carried  his  hapless 
mother’s  marriage-ring  from  the  informer’s  hand. 
Taking  oflT  the  ring,  he  held  it  up  to  the  two  Rappa- 
rees. 

“Ha,  ha!”  he  shouted,  in  his  shrill,  vindictive 
voice,  “  I  have  it  at  last.  An’,  if  you  let  me  list 
with  your  brave  min,  Theige,  that  keep  the  forest, 
’tisn’t  the  last  blow  I’ll  give  the  throops,  to  revenge 
my  poor  mother  and  my  people.” 

“Very  well,  Brighteye,”  answered  Theige,  “  come 
to  us  to-morrow,  an’  'by  the  bones  o’  my  father !  but 
you’ll  be  a  gallant  captain  yet.  An’  now,  Murty 
Goold,”  he  continued,  turning  to  that  worthy, 
“  don’t  forget  the  haversacks  an’  pockets  o’  th’  ould 
Skavinger’s  troopers.  Farewell.”  And  away  dashed 
the  two  bold  Rapparees,  side  by  side,  down  the 
street. 

Murty  Goold  obeyed  the  injunction  of  Theige 
O’Cooney ;  and,  searching  and  ransacking  among 


THE  CHASE  FROM  THE  HOSTEL. 


235 


the  pockets  and  haversacks  of  the  slain  troopers, 
found  a  share  of  spoil  —  the  plunder  of  many  a 
ruined  dwelling  in  town  and  hamlet  —  that  enabled 
him  that  night  to  decamp  without  loss  from  his 
house  of  entertainment,  and  set  off  for  Cork,  where 
he  set  up  an  establishment  of  an  equally  flourishing 
description,  and  where,  in  process  of  time,  he  be¬ 
came  a  burgess,  and  ultimately  the  jolliest  alderman 
in  the  city. 

Away  dashed  Theige  and  his  brother  towards  the 
bridge,  on  the  middle  of  which,  as  they  went  up  at 
full  gallop,  a  sergeant  and  four  troopers  stood  to  bar 
their  way.  Each  threw  his  bridle  loose  on  his 
horse’s  neck,  and,  drawing  the  pistol  from  the  left 
holster,  dashed  with  his  sword  upon  the  astonished 
Danes.  Both  fired  as  they  went,  bringing  down  the 
unfortunate  sergeant  and  one  of  his  comrades  with 
a  dull  crash  on  the  hard  pavement,  and,  sweeping 
past  the  remainder,  rattled  up  the  long  street.  As 
they  dashed  on,  the  troopers  on  the  bridge,  recover¬ 
ing  from  their  surprise  and  panic,  fired  their  mus- 
ketoons  after  them.  One  of  the  bullets  wounded 
Donogh’s  horse  in  the  leg,  and  another  struck  the 
ridge  on  Theige’s  helmet,  throwing  him  for  a  moment 
forward  on  the  neck  of  his  horse. 

“  Ha,  ha !  ”  he  cried.  “  A  good  shot,  truly ;  but 
’tis  the  first  one  I  ever  got  from  behind.  Away, 
Donogh,  away,  I  say !  Look  behind :  there’s  a 
whole  rigement  o’  the  blue  thieves  rattlin’  over  the 
bridge  afther  us.” 


236 


THE  CHASE  FROM  THE  HOSTEL. 


Away  up  the  long,  stony  street  they  clattered 
with  three  troops  of  General  S’gravenmore’s  dra¬ 
goons  in  hot  pursuit  behind  them.  On  gaining  a  small 
hillock  outside  the  town,  they  turned  their  horses 
eastward,  and,  breaking  through  copse  and  over 
fence,  swept  down  at  full  speed  by  the  Blackwater 
side.  They  now  began  for  a  while  to  distance 
their  pursuers;  but  the  dogged  Danes  kept  like 
bloodhounds  on  their  track  in  a  dull,  unvarying, 
but  sure  gallop  for  mile  on  mile  of  forest  and  plain. 
As  the  two  brothers  had  swept  ahead  of  their  pur¬ 
suers  about  half  a  mile,  and  were  crossing  a  little 
stream  that  emptied  itself  into  the  idver  Blackwater, 
Donogh’s  horse  began  to  slacken  his  speed  and  fail 
in  consequence  of  his  wounded  leg.  Urging  him 
on  with  voice  and  spur,  he  endeavored  for  a  time  to 
keep  up  with  the  speed  of  the  wild  and  splendid 
mare  bestrode  by  his  brother  Theige ;  but,  despite 
all  his  exertions,  the  poor  horse  began  to  flag  more 
and  more,  so  that  Theige  had  at  length  to  slacken 
his  speed  in  order  to  keep  by  his  side. 

“It  is  useless,”  exclaimed  Donogh  at  length. 
“  Away  with  you,  Theige,  and  leave  me  behind,  to 
die  as  my  father  did  before  me,  —  like  a  man.” 

“Never,”  answered  Theige.  “It  shall  never  be 
said  of  Theige  O’Cooney  by  his  comrades  at  the 
camp-fire,  an’  by  his  gineral  when  he  rides  into  bat¬ 
tle,  that  he  left  the  brother  of  his  heart  behind  him, 
to  die  beneath  the  swords  of  yonder  Danish  dogs.” 

“The  best  man  should  be  saved,”  I’ejoined  Don- 


THE  CHASE  FEOM  THE  HOSTEL. 


237 


ogh;  “an’  there  is  none  like  you  to  make  our  com¬ 
rades  laugh  around  the  forest  fire,  nor  a  man  like 
you  on  the  tundherin’  field  o’  battle.” 

“  Take  my  horse,”  said  Theige.  “  Her  hoofs  are 
swift  as  the  winds  on  Corrin  Thierna;  an’  she  will 
bear  you  away,  like  a  flash  o’  lightniiT,  to  Rockfoi-est, 
safe  an’  sound.” 

“  By  the  sowl  o’  the  mother  that  bore  me !  ” 
answered- Donogh,  “but  I’d  rather  die  a  thousand 
deaths  than  do  a  mane  act  like  that.  Away  with 
you,  man,  afore  it  is  too  late  ;  an’  lave  me  to  my 
doom.  What  is  it  to  die,  when  one  does  it  like  a 
brave  man  ?  ” 

“  Look  !  ”  said  Theige,  as  they  still  spurred  along, 
“look  behind  at  that  thrumpeter  on  his  white  horse ! 
See !  he’s  a  quarter  of  a  mile  afore  his  comrades,  an’ 
the  same  from  us.  He’ll  soon  be  up  with  us,  if  he 
goes  at  that  rate.  By  the  morthial !  but  that’s  a 
brave  horse,  an’  I’ll  have  him.  An’  now,  Donogh, 
look  at  this,”  he  continued,  as  he  rode  close  up  to 
the  side  of  his  brother,  with  his  naked  sJcean,  or 
dagger,  in  his  hand.  “By  this  S/lmw,  if  you  don’t 
take  my  mare.  I’ll  plunge  it  through  your  heart;  foi¬ 
l’d  rather  you’d  die  by  my  hand  than  be  hanged 
like  a  dog  when  the  throopers  come  up  an’  surround 
you.  How,  leap  behind  me  on  the  saddle,  for  we 
cannot  lose  time ;  an’  I’ll  scramble  into  your  saddle 
from  this.  There,  —  that’s  it,”  continued  he,  as 
Donogh,  aware  that  further  parley  was  useless, 
sprang  behind  him  on  the  brave  mare.  “Now  for  a 


238 


THE  CHASE  FROM  THE  HOSTEL. 


spring  in  airnest !  ”  And,  with  a  bound  like  that  of 
a  wild  cat,  he  threw  himself  on  Donogh’s  lame 
liorse,  “Hurra!”  he  cried,  “off  with  you,  an’ 
watch  back  from  the  high  grounds  how  I’ll  dale  with 
the  man  o’  the  white  horse.” 

At  this  time  they  were  on  a  height  over  a  broad, 
flat  valley.  Away  went  Donogh  at  a  hard  gallop, 
and  soon  left  his  brother  behind ;  who,  however, 
went  on  in  his  track  down  the  smooth  declivity,  as 
fast  as  the  lame  horse  could  carry  him.  As  he  left 
the  descent,  and  was  riding  out  into  the  flat  bosom 
of  the  valley,  the  poor  horse,  weak  from  exertion 
and  loss  of  blood,  stumbled  and  fell  beneath  his 
rider  at  the  ci’ossing  of  a  little  stream.  Just  as 
Theiffe  had  extricated  himself  from  the  fallen  steed, 
he  heard  a  wild  and  exulting  shout  behind  him ;  and, 
on  looking  back,  beheld  the  trumpeter  coming  at  a 
furious  pace  down  the  declivity,  and  calling  out  to 
liim  at  the  same  time,  with  various  choice  execra¬ 
tions  in  Dutch  and  Danish,  to  stand  and  yield  him¬ 
self  prisoner.  Theige,  however,  neither  caring  for 
nor  understanding  the  polite  invitation,  shook  his 
sword  at  the  trumpeter,  and  dashed  over  the  soft 
sward  of  the  valley  in  the  direction  of  his  brother. 
On  came  the  trumpeter,  closer  and  closer  to  him 
whom  he  considered  but  a  helpless  and  defenceless 
fugitive;  but,  if  he  could  only  have  seen  the  fierce 
and  steady  eye  cast  back  at  him  occasionally  by  the 
Rapparee,  he  would  have  been  far  more  cautious  in  his 
movements.  As  he  came  up,  he  delivered  his  most 


THE  CHASE  FROM  THE  HOSTEL. 


239 


tremendous  and  scientific  cut  at  the  head  of  the 
Rapparee,  intending  to  sheer  it  off  at  one  blow ;  but 
Theige,  stooping  almost  to  the  ground  at  the  same 
instant,  allowed  the  sword  to  pass  harmlessly  over 
him,  and,  before  the  trumpeter  could  turn,  was  up 
Avith  a  wild  and  agile  bound  behind  him  on  the 
white  horse. 

“An’  now,  you  murthurin’  dog!”  he  cried,  as  he 
clasped  the  luckless  trumpeter  around  the  body  with 
his  left  hand,  and  flourished  his  long  sJcean  in  his 
right,  “did  you  ever  feel  tlie  firm  grip  of  a  man  be¬ 
fore?  You  sack  o’ Avind,  you ’ll  never  more  blow 
the  chargin’  blast  on  a  trumpet.  Take  that!”  And, 
at  the  word,  the  body  of  the  trumpeter,  pierced 
through  and  through  by  the  long  slcean,  fell  on  the 
boggy  sward.  At  the  same  moment  the  first  troop 
of  the  pursuers  appeared  on  the  heiglit  overhead, 
and,  seeing  the  fate  of  their  comrade,  dashed  head¬ 
long  dowiiAvard  Avith  a  revengeful  cry. 

“  Hurra  !  ”  shouted  Theige,  as  he  crept  into  the 
high-peaked  saddle  of  the  terrified  horse,  and  urged 
him,  like  the  wind,  across  the  valley.  “  Here  they 
come,  the  bloody  hounds !  but  the  first  man  that 
laves  his  ranks  an’  comes  up,  he  ’ll  get  a  sore  blow 
to  reward  him  for  his  run  !  ” 

AAvay  along  the  valley,  over  the  opposite  height, 
and  down  into  the  scattered  forest  by  the  river  shore. 
Here  Theige,  feeling  himself  more  secure,  reined  in 
his  horse  to  a  leisurely  canter,  intending  to  gain  a 
ford  farther  doAAm  the  riA^er,  AAdiere  his  brother  would 


240 


THE  CHASE  FROM  THE  HOSTEL. 


be  likely  to  cross,  and  await  him  on  the  farther  side. 
On  gaining  the  summit  of  a  small,  bare  height,  he 
could  see  behind  him  the  scattered  ari’ay  of  the 
troopers  coming  along  at  the  same  furious  gallop, 
their  armor  and  other  accoutrements  glittering  in 
the  sun,  and  their  phiraes  glancing  hither  and  thither 
with.picturesque  effect  through  green  glade  and  hol¬ 
low.  Here  Theige  paused  a  moment  to  take  a  better 
survey  of  his  pursuers.  Far  before  the  rest,  two  offi¬ 
cers  spurred  along,  one  behind  the  other,  down  the 
bosom  of  a  narrow  valley  that  led  by  the  height  on 
which  he  rested  his  horse. 

“’Tis  the  ould  Gray  Captain  an’  his  brother,” 
muttered  Theige  :  “  the  man  that  hanged  Guilelmis 
the  Poet,  an’  burned  the  villages  o’  the  wmst;  the 
man  that  stabbed  the  priest  beneath  the  Blossom 
Gate  in  Kilmallock;  an’  the  very  man  that  gave  me 
this  slash  of  his  sabre  on  the  head  in  the  battle  on 
the  Inch  o’  Mallow.  By  tlie  blessed  Tree  of  Gorin, 
but  I  ’ll  pay  him  back  now  or  never !  ”  And  with  that 
he  gave  his  steed  the  spur,  and  galloped  down  at  the 
opposite  side  of  the  hillock.  Turning  to  the  right, 
he  descended  into  the  valley  at  its  lower  extremity, 
and  there  reined  up  his  steed  once  more,  at  the  cor¬ 
ner  of  a  thick  grove,  by  which  he  knew  the  two 
officers  would  pass. 

In  a  few  moments  the  Gray  Captain  clattered 
down  the  stony  bridle-way,  and  out  beyond  the  cor¬ 
ner  of  the  grove,  without  noticing  the  white  horse 
on  which  Theige  sat  as  far  in  as  possible  among  the 
trees. 


THE  CHASE  FROM  THE  HOSTEL. 


•241 


“  I ’m  sure  of  him,  the  morthial  ould  fiend !  ”  said 
Theige  to  himseif,  “  but  I  must  wait  an’  have  the 
brother  along  with  him.  An’  here  he  comes  !  ”  he 
continued,  as  he  wheeled  round  his  horse,  and  j^oint- 
ed  his  long  pistol  through  a  broken  space  among  the 
trees  at  the  head  of  the  Gray  Captain’s  brother,  who 
came  thundering  down  with  reckless  speed  by  the 
side  of  the  wood. 

“  There  goes  one  !  ”  exclaimed  Theige  fiercely,  as 
he  fired  his  pistol ;  and  down  went  the  oflicer,  shot 
through  the  brain,  with  a  loud  crash  and  clang  on 
the  rugged  and  broken  way,  his  steed,  with  a  shrill 
neigh  of  terror,  clattering  down  the  valley,  and  mak¬ 
ing  his  way  at  length  fast  and  far  down  the  scattered 
woods  by  the  Blackwater  side. 

“Now  for  the  bravest  an’  wickedest  man  o’  them 
all!”  exclaimed  Theige,  as  he  gave  his  horse  the 
spur.  The  Gray  Captain  at  the  same  moment 
wheeled  round  his  horse,  and  rushed  uj)  the  bridle¬ 
path  to  meet  him.  As  the  two  came  near,  the 
Captain,  swerving  his  horse  with  a  quick  movement 
to  the  left,  gave  a  back-handed  slash  of  his  sabre  to 
Theige,  which  sheared  off  the  crown-spike  of  his 
helmet,  and  went  very  near  bringing  him  to  the 
earth. 

“  A  brave  blow  1  ”  growled  Theige  between  his 
clenched  teeth,  as  he  recovered  himself,  and,  turning 
round  his  horse,  trotted  up  warily  to  the  spot  where 
his  foe  stood  on  his  guard  awaiting  him.  But  the 
Gray  Captain’s  scientific  and  too  systematic  guards, 

10 


242 


THE  CHASE  FROM  THE  HOSTEL. 


cuts,  and  parries  proved  now  but  of  little  avail  against 
the  quick  and  determined  onset  of  the  Rapparee ;  and 
he  fell,  just  at  the  moment  that  his  troop  entei-ed 
the  topmost  opening  of  the  valley,  and  were  rush- 
inar  down  to  his  assistance. 

o 

“  By  my  sword !  ”  said  Theige,  as  he  seized  the 
bridle  of  his  dead  foeman’s  hoi’se  and  spurred  away, 
“  but,  man  after  man,  if  they  come  on  this  way,  I’d 
have  the  horses  of  the  whole  troop  before  night.” 
He  now  put  .the  two  horses  to  their  utmost  speed, 
and  soon  distanced  his  pursuers.  On  turning  out 
beyond  a  grove,  by  the  river-side,  he  suddenly  came 
upon  his  brother,  Honogli,  who  stood  quietly  await¬ 
ing  him,  after  capturing  the  horse  that  had  borne 
the  Gray  Captain’s  brother. 

“  I  towld  you  I’d  come  safe,  Donogh,”  said 
Theige,  as  they  galloped  off ;  “  an’  by  the  sowl  o’ 
King  Brian !  but  the  next  time  we  go  to  Mallow, 
we’ll  bring  away  with  us  the  nate  brass  cannon  that 
the  ould  Skavinger  took  from  MacDonogh’s  throops 
in  the  battle  on  the  Inch.” 

On  and  on  they  spurred  at  a  steady  gallop  till 
they  found  themselves  far  beyond  pursuit,  and  at 
length,  crossing  a  lonely  ford  of  the  Blackwater,  re¬ 
gained  their  inaccessible  haunt  among  the  moun¬ 
tains,  where  that  night  Theige  O’Cooney  sang  “  Moll 
Roone”  to  his  admiring  companions,  and  to  his  own 
heart’s  content,  beside  his  merry  Rapparee  camp-fire. 


The  Whitethorn  Tree. 

A  LEGEND  OF  KILCOLMAN  CASTLE. 


CHAPTER  1. 

They  washed  the  blood,  with  many  a  tear, 

From  dint  of  dart  and  arrow, 

And  buried  him  near  the  waters  clear 
Of  the  brook  of  Alpuxarra. 

Spanish  Ballad. 

The  principal  boundary  between  the  counties 
of  Cork  and  Limerick  is  that  abrupt  and 
boggy  range  called  by  Spenser  the  Mountains  of 
Mole,  but  in  the  Irish  denominated  Sliabh  Bally- 
houra,  or  the  mountains  of  the  dangerous  ballaghs, 
or  passes.  To  the  west  and  south  of  this  range, 
over  many  a  broad  plain  and  undulating  valley, 
once  spread  the  wild  and  romantic  Forest  of  Kil- 
more.  In  the  days  of  Elizabeth,  and  for  nearly  a 
century  after,  this  forest  sent  out  many  off-shoots 
into  the  neighboring  baronies.  One  of  the  most 
considerable  of  these  branches,  commencing  near 
Buttevant,  swept  round  the  soutliern  declivity  of 

243 


244 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


the  Ballyliouras,  until  at  length  it  formed  a  junction 
with  the  great  and  intricate  woody  fastness  of 
Aherlow,  at  the  base  of  the  Gaulty  Mountains. 
Tlirough  it  ran  the  beautiful  Mulla,  —  now  called 
Aubeg,  —  a  short  distance  from  which,  on  the  shore 
of  Lough  Ullair,  or  the  Eagle’s  Lake,  rose  up  the 
battlements  of  Kilcolnian  Castle,  once  the  residence 
of  the  immortal  Spenser.  This  castle  anciently 
belonged  to  the  Earls  of  Desmond  ;  but  in  July, 
1586,  it  was  granted  by  the  crown  to  Spenser, 
together  with  about  three  thousand  acres  of  the 
surrounding  country.  Here  Spenser  wrote  his 
“  Faerie  Queen ;  ”  here  — 

“  He  sat,  as  was  his  trade, 

Under  the  foot  of  Mole,  that  mountain  hoar, 
Keeping  his  sheep  beneath  the  coolly  shade 
Of  the  green  alders  by  the  Mulla’s  shore,  — 

when  the  “  Shepherd  of  the  Ocean,”  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh,  visited  him ;  and  here  he  remained  until 
the  October  of  1598,  when  the  Desmond  Insurrec¬ 
tion  broke  out,  and  the  castle  was  taken  and  burnt 
by  the  exasperated  Irish.  An  infant  son  of  his  was 
burnt  to  death  in  the  flames ;  and  Spenser  himself, 
together  with  his  wife  and  two  other  sons,  nari’owly 
escaped  sharing.the  same  fate,  and  fled  to  England, 
where,  on  the  16th  of  January,  1599,  he  died  at 
Westminster,  London.  The  castle  is  now  a  mere 
ruin  ;  but  from  the  distance  at  which  it  can  be  seen, 
and  its  charming  situation  on  a  green  knoll  above 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


245 


the  lake,  it  still  forms  a  very  picturesque  and  inter¬ 
esting  feature  in  the  landscape. 

It  was  a  calm  autumn  evening,  during  the  great 
insurrection  which  commenced  in  the  year  1G41, 
The  waterfowl  were  quietly  swimming  on  Lough 
Ullair ;  and  the  rich  sunbeams  were  bathing  the 
castle  in  their  mellow  light,  and  showing  distinctly 
out  the  black,  stern  traces  of  the  fire  which  loosened 
and  disfigured  its  walls  nearly  half  a  century  before. 
Outside  the  castle  all  was  brightness,  life,  and 
beauty;  but  inside,  darkness  and  decay  made  their 
dwelling  throughout  all  the  deserted  chambers  ex¬ 
cept  one,  whose  gloom  was  dispelled  by  a  merry 
little  charcoal  fire,  which  burned  like  a  luminous 
point  on  the  huge  fireplace.  Two  figures  sat  on  a 
stone  bench  beside  that  fire  :  one,  a  tall,  dark-com¬ 
plexioned  woman,  advanced  in  years ;  the  other,  a 
young  and  handsome  girl.  The  countenance  of  the 
latter  showed  the  traces  of  recent  weeping,  but 
seemed  beautiful  even  in  its  sorrow ;  and  its  effect 
was  brightened  by  the  tresses  of  rich,  amber-colored 
hair  which  fell  in  bright  masses  upon  her  shoulders, 
harmonizing  sweetly  with  the  graceful  folds  of  her 
dress,  as  she  sat  turned  towards  her  companion,  who 
was  in  the  act  of  addressing  her, 

“  you’ll  not  have  him,  you  say,  *  You’ll  never 
more  meet  a  truer  or  bi'aver  man.  If  you  saw  him, 
as  I  did,  in  battle,  when  he  was  surrounded  near 
Glanore,  an’  how  gallantly  he  broke  through  that 
press  o’  men,  you’d  change  your  mind  soon  an’ 
suddint,” 


246 


THE  WHITETHOBN  TREE. 


“I  cannot  change  my  mind,”  answered  the  young 
girl :  “  my  mind  an’  heart  are  made  up,  an’  true  to 
another  since  I  was  a  child ;  an’  death  itself  cannot 
make  me  break  the  faith  I  plighted.” 

“Well,  I  know  him  too.  But  you  see  by  this 
that  you  can  never  be  his  wife,  for  you’ll  never  see 
his  face  more.  Take  the  man  that  suffered  for  you, 
an’  that  got  himself  hunted,  like  a  wild  baste, 
through  the  mountains  for  your  sake.  If  you  don’t, 
you’ll  have  his  etarnil  revenge  on  you,  an’  mine  too, 
—  an’  you  know  me  well  by  this;  an’  you  must 
choose  between  bein’  his  wife,  an’  going  into  the 
arms  o’  the  Black  Captain.” 

“  The  Black  Captain  cannot  be  worse  than  your 
black  brother.  I’ll  meet  the  fate  that  God  wills  me, 
an’  still  be  true  to  the  man  I  love.  Death  will 
soon  end  my  misery,  if  it  comes  to  the  worst.” 

At  this  moment  a  step  was  heard  descending  the 
spiral  stair  that  led  to  the  apartments  above.  The 
old  creaking  door  opened,  and  the  Black  Captain 
himself  stood  before  them.  He  was  a  man  past  the 
meridian  of  life,  of  an  exceedingly  dark  complexion, 
and  wearing  the  high  hat,  sober-colored  cloak,  and 
large,  plain,  iron-hilted  sword,  of  a  Puritan. 

“Hast  thou  told  her,”  he  said,  addressing  the 
elder  female,  “  of  the  blissful  life  she  is  to  lead  with 
a  warrior  from  among  God’s  chosen  ?  Methinks 
thou  must  have  a  most  persuasive  tongue;  for 
Reuben  Sadface,  my  trusty  man,  knows  by  this  the 
sore  persuasion  that  dwells  in  thy  clenched  hands 
and  finger-nails.” 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


247 


“  I’ve  towld  her  all,”  answered  the  woman,  sullen¬ 
ly,  “  an’  she’s  the  same  still.  Ask  herself.” 

“I  may  not  beatify  my  soul  with  such  loving 
dalliance  this  eventide.  A  blessed  and  holy  call, 
a  war-call,  has  taken  possession  of  my  spirit  for  the 
moment.  Even  as  Saul  was  commanded  to  slay  the 
idolatrous  nations,  so  am  I  chosen  to  purge  by  the 
agency  of  fire  and  steel  the  western  valleys  of  their 
heathenish  progeny ;  and  I  must  be  gone.  When  the 
sword  of  the  Lord  shall  have  fallen  upon  those 
children  of  Baal,  I  shall  return  to  tell  what  I  have 
left  unsaid  to  this, — this  branch  rescued  from  the 
burning,  —  this  most  fortunate  of  maidens.” 

“Alice  O’Brien,”  said  the  woman  bitterly,  when 
the  Black  Captain  had  left  them,  “  answer  me  this. 
Do  you  think  I  coaxed  you  up,  an’  thrated  you  like 
as  if  you  wor  my  own  sisther,  to  be  bate  an’  baffled 
by  you  this  way  ?  Maybe  you  won’t  be  the  show 
for  all  Murrogh  an’  Theothawn’s  *  army,  when  the 
Black  Captain  has  you  in  his  crooks !  Maybe  then 
you’ll  wish  to  be  back  with  me,  and  that  you  had 
made  up  your  mind  to  have  my  brave  brother 
Theige,  my  fine  and  cunnin’  damsel !  ” 

“  I  answer  once  more,”  said  Alice,  “that  I’ll  have 
neither  the  Black  Captain  nor  your  brother  Theige : 
I’ll  die  fii’st.  I  put  my  trust  in  God ;  an’  perhaps 
my  brother  Moran  an’  his  comrade,  John  Mac- 
Sheehy,  may  come  soon  enough  with  their  horse¬ 
men,  an’  set  me  free.” 

*  Murrogh  the  Burner,  —  the  Earl  of  Inchiquin. 


248 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


“Your  brother  Moran  an’  your  sweetheart  John 
have  enough  to  do  to  keep  their  own  cai’kisses  safe, 
without  mindin’  what’ll  become  o’  the  likes  o’  you. 
But  never  mind.  Wait,  an’  we’ll  see  what’ll  come 
o’  this  to-morrow.” 

A  few  hours  after  the  departure  of  the  Black 
Captain  that  evening,  the  setting  sun  was  darting 
his  red  beams  through  the  glades  of  the  scattered 
forest  by  the  banks  of  the  beautiful  Ounanar,  a  few 
miles  eastward  of  Kilcolman  Castle.  The  Ounanar 
is  a  wild  stream,  rising  far  up  in  the  Ballyhoura 
Mountains,  amid  the  bogs  beyond  Kilcolman,  and 
flowinsT  into  the  Mulla  a  short  distance  below 
Doneraile.  In  one  of  the  most  solitary  glades 
beside  the  stream,  the  sunbeams  were  reflected  by 
some  not  very  unfrequent  objects  in  those_  dreadful 
times,  namely,  the  morion  and  accoutrements  of  a 
dead  young  soldier.  He  lay  upon  his  back,  with 
his  right  hand  grasping  the  empty  scabbard  of  his 
sword,  and  his  left  thrown  upward  threateningly,  as 
if,  in  his  last  moments,  he  had  endeavored  to 
menace  death  or  some  other  unwelcome  visitor 
from  his  side.  His  head,  cleft  by  a  great  wound, 
lay  heavily  upon  the  blood-stained  grass;  and  his 
morion,  also  cleft,  had  fallen  off,  part  hidden  in  the 
grass,  and  the  top,  or  spike,  glittering  in  the  sun. 
As  he  lay  thus,  a  raven  from  a  neighboring  tree 
perched  upon  a  fragment  of  rock  near  him,  and  for 
a  few  moments  regarded  him  with  a  wary  and  in¬ 
quisitive  look;  then,  as  if  satisfied  that  there  was 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


249 


no  danger,  it  half  opened  its  wings,  and,  hopping 
along  the  grass,  alighted  again  upon  the  spike  of 
the  morion.  It  was,  however,  soon  scared  from  its 
unsteady  resting-place  by  a  more  rapacious  ban¬ 
queter.  A  huge  wolf  rushed  forth  from  the  copse, 
and,  with  a  voracious  whine,  laid  its  foremost  paws 
upon  the  iron-clad  but  pulseless  breast  of  the  young 
man.  Its  long  white  teeth  ground  against  the 
edge  of  his  steel  breastplate,  its  red  eyes  glared 
with  ferocious  satisfaction  at  the  prospect  of  its 
savage  meal,  when  it  was  in  its  turn  also  inter¬ 
rupted,  but  in  a  more  fatal  manner.  A  shot  rang 
up  from  the  river  bank ;  and  the  wolf,  wounded 
through  the  heart,  fell  backward,  with  claws  and 
teeth  tearing  in  its  mortal  agony  a  huge  frieze  cloak, 
or  cape,  which  lay  over  the  shoulders  of  the  dead 
soldier.  Before  the  echoes  of  the  shot  had  died 
along  the  hollow  banks  of  the  stream,  a  horseman 
rode  swiftly  up  the  glade,  and,  leaping  from  his 
steed,  plunged  his  sword  through  the  body  of  the 
expiring  wolf. 

The  horseman  was  attired  like  the  young  soldier, 
whose  body  he  had  thus  so  opportunely  rescued. 
On  his  head  he  wore  a  helmet,  or  morion,  without 
a  plume,  but  with  a  sharp  steel  spike  projecting 
straight  upwards  from  its  crown.  Over  his  shoulders, 
and  reaching  beyond  his  hips,  hung  a  brown  frieze 
cape,  fastened  at  the  throat  by  a  silver  clasp,  and 
open  somewhat  in  front,  showing  underneath  a 
bright  steel  back-and-breast,  or  corselet.  His 


250 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


trousers  were  colored  like  the  cape  and  of  the 
same  material,  the  legs  falling  below  into  a  pair  of 
long,  unf)olished  boots  which  reached  to  his  knees, 
with  their  formidable  spurs,  giving  him  the  air  of 
one  by  whom  the  saddle  was  very  seldom  aban¬ 
doned  for  a  more  quiet  seat.  From  a  belt  around  his 
waist,  along  with  the  usual  skean,  or  dagger,  hung 
the  scabbard  of  his  swoi’d ;  and  in  his  right  hand  he 
grasped  the  naked  blade,  while  in  his  left  he  held 
the  small  musketoon  which  he  had  just  discharged 
with  so  true  an  aim.  He  was  young,  somewhat 
above  the-  middle  height,  and  his  bronzed,  deter¬ 
mined  face  and  fearless  eye  showed  that  he  had 
seen  both  hardships  and  dangers,  and  was  ready  to 
brave  them  again  without  concern. 

He  advanced  now,  and  stooped  down,  examining 
the  features  of  the  fallen  youth.  “Ha,  Moran!” 
he  exclaimed,  suddenly,  “  great  God,  how  is  this  ?  ” 
Then  falling  on  his  knees  beside  the  body,  he 
continued,  “  O  Moran !  my  only  friend,  and  the 
brother  of  my  lost  Alice,  little  I  expected  we’d 
meet  thus  I  Little  did  I  think  that  ’twas  your  dead 
body  I  was  saving  from  the  jaws  of  the  wild  dog  of 
the  hills  I  The  battles  are  coming  again,  and  the 
gallant  gathering  is  by  the  walls  of  Castle  na  Doon ; 
but  who  will  ride  beside  me  like  Moran  O’Brien  ?  ” 

He  started  to  his  feet  as  if  the  thought  maddened 
him,  and  commenced  striding  wildly  up  and  down 
the  glade. 

“Poor  Ellen  Roche  too,  who  loved  him  so  well! 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREp. 


251 


—  little  her  light  heart  dreams  of  this,  —  the  black 
and  woful  news  I’ll  have  to  tell  her  at  the  dance 
to-morrow !  ” 

He  once  more  approached  the  body,  and,  examin¬ 
ing  it  more  minutely,  found  a  bullet-wound  in  the 
throat,  which,  with  the  severed  helmet  and  the 
long  gash  upon  the  head,  made  him  suspect  that 
the  unfortunate  young  soldier  had  come  by  his 
death  unfairly.  Then,  as  if  his  suspicions  had 
lighted  upon  some  individual,  and  that  he  deter¬ 
mined  to  wreak  immediate  vengeance,  he  took  the 
body  in  his  arms,  and  deposited  it  in  a  deep,  narrow 
rent  between  two  rocks  near  the  stream ;  and  cov¬ 
ering  it  with  some  leafy  boughs,  and  a  few  long 
stone  flags,  in  order  to  preserve  it  from  the  wolves, 
at  that  period  so  numerous  in  the  country,  he  mut¬ 
tered  sorrowfully  a  few  prayers,  mounted  his  steed, 
and  departed. 

After  crossing  the  river,  and  riding  along  its 
eastern  shore  somewhat  more  than  a  mile,  he 
turned  his  horse’s  head  towards  the  southern  flank 
of  a  steep  mountain,  strewn  with  great  bowlders  of 
rock,  which,  as  the  twilight  now  darkened  over  the 
hills  to  help  the  illusion,  rose  up  from  the  solitary 
heath,  bare  and  spectral,  like  the  deserted  and  mel¬ 
ancholy  ruins  of  an  ancient  city.  A  number  of 
these  lay  congregated  in  an  irregular  ridge  near  the 
summit;  and  here  the  young  horseman  alighted,  and, 
leading  his  steed  noiselessly  along  the  soft  turf, 
stood  at  length  beside  a  huge,  broad  rock,  so  flat  and 


252 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


low  that  it  scarcely  reached  above  the  brushwood 
and  long  heath  that  grfew  around.  Underneath  it, 
at  one  side,  there  was  a  small  entrance,  or  opening, 
through  which  a  confused  jumble  of  voices  now  fell 
upon  the  horseman’s  ear ;  while  a  clear  stream  of 
light  also  shot  forth,  and  brightened  the  scarred 
and  weather-beaten  face  of  a  crag  that  rose  hard 
by.  Peering  cautiously  through  another  and  a 
smaller  chink,  he  beheld,  what  he  indeed  sought  for, 
a  group  inside;  the  individuals  of  which  corre¬ 
sponded  exactly  in  appearance  with  the  strange 
place  they  had  chosen  for  their  habitation. 

In  the  corner  of  a  small  apartment  irregularly 
formed  by  a  rent  in  the  crag,  and  having  for  its 
roof  the  lower  surface  of  the  flat  rock  mentioned 
above,  sat  before  a  bright  fire  of  blazing  bog-deal 
three  figures,  as  different  in  appearance  from  each 
other  as  could  be  consistent  with  the  fact  that  each 
formed  a  member  of  the  great  human  family.  He 
who  sat  between  the  other  two  was  a  man  in  the 
prime  of  life  and  of  gigantic  stature  ;  his  long,  mat¬ 
ted  beard  and  hair  falling  almost  on  his  breast  and 
shoulders,  and  a- reddish  cap,  with  a  sprig  of  blos¬ 
somed  whitethorn  for  a  plume,  set  somewhat  cav¬ 
alierly,  but  fiercely,  on  his  head.  His  prominent, 
beard-covered  chin,  and  thin,  beaked  nose,  gave  to 
his  wild  physiognomy  a  sinister  expression,  which 
was  increased  by  a  pair  of  gloomy  eyes  bent  sternly 
on  the  pel-son  at  his  right,  whom  he  was  in  the 
act  of  addressing.  He  was  enveloped  in  a  soiled 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


258 


scarlet  cloak,  wliicli  lay  closely  round  his  upright 
figure,  and  fell  in  folds  behind  him  upon  the  block 
of  stone  on  which  he  sat;  showing  a  pair  of  long, 
frieze-clad  legs,  and  feet  encased  in  great  brogues, 
with  low  heels,  made  so  in  order  not  to  impede  his 
progress  over  the  quagmires  and  bogs  of  which  he 
was  so  often  a  denizen.  Such  was  the  figure  of 

O 

Theige  Foiling  Dearg,  or  Timothy  of  the  Red  Cloak, 
—  the  dweller  by  the  Fairy  Thorn-tree  of  Glananar. 
He  to  the  right,  to  whom  Theige  of  the  Red  Cloak 
gave  in  his  conversation  the  title  of  Theige  Cu 
Allee,  or  Theige  the  Wolf,  *had  full  and  ample 
claims,  in  appearance  at  least,  to  that  sylvan  cogno¬ 
men.  He  was  of  dwarfish  height,  but,  at  the  same 
time,  so  brawny  and  broad-shouldered  as  to  have, 
as  he  sat  with  his  short  legs  stretched  out  and  hid¬ 
den  among  some  green  heath,  the  appearance  of  a 
giant  ogre,  sunk  to  his  middle  in  the  earth.  His 
mouth,  the  most  prominent  part  of  his  features,  was 
garnished  with  an  irregular  set  of  large  teeth,  which 
gave  him,  when  he  either  laughed  or  sneered,  some 
resemblance  to  a  snarling  wolf.  He  wore  a  cap  and 
loose  frieze  coat,  open  in  front,  and  showing  a  broad, 
hairy  chest,  not  unused,  if  one  could  judge  from  the 
wild  expression  of  the  face,  to  heave  with  many  a 
storm  of  vindictive  passion.  Their  comrade  was, 
in  form  certainly,  a  direct  opposite  to  both.  His 
features  were  regular  and  handsome;  he  appeared, 
as  he  sat,  a  little  below  the  middle  size,  and  very 
slenderly  formed;  but  there  was  a  wiriness  about 


254 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


his  whole  frame,  and  something  in  his  dark,  saga¬ 
cious  eye,  that  told  him  no  mean  antagonist,  with 
that  long  skean  he  wore  at  his  side,  in  a  single  en¬ 
counter  or  in  the  confusion  of  a  battle.  His  clothes 
fitted  better  than  Cu  Allee’s,  but  were  of  the  same 
material.  He  answered  his  -  companions  with  the 
utmost  self-complacency,  when  they  addressed  him 
in  their  discourse  by  the  enviable  title  of  Theige  na 
Meerval,  or  Timothy  of  the  W onders,  —  a  name  to 
which  he  had,  at  the  moment,  strong  claims,  from 
the  miraculous  facility  with  which  he  disposed  of 
some  large  fragments*  of  beef  he  had  boiled  upon  the 
bofir-deal  embers.  Various  instruments  of  warfare 

o 

were  strewn  around  them,  demonstrating,  that,  in  all 
circumstances  excepting  that  of  a  blockade,  the 
citadel  could  be  held  for  a  long  time  and  against 
considerable  odds.  They  appeared  to  be  engaged 
in  some  very  interesting  conversation. 

“  For  hurself,  ”  said  he  of  the  Red  Cloak,  “  hur 
would  rather  see  the  Sassenachs  with  their  spurs  in 
their  horses’  flanks,  an’  their  soords  in  their  hands, 
nor  to  see  them  slinking  behind  stone  garrisons,  like 
foxes  in  the  crags  of  Ullair.” 

“Yes,”  said  Cu  Allee,  in  his  native  tongue, 
“wherever  the  Sassenach  goes,  there  is  rich  booty; 
and,  for  me,  there  was  once  sweeter  booty,  —  plenty 
of  revenge.” 

“  Hur  often  heerd  Cu  Allee  whisperin’  an’  cug- 
gerin’,  in  hur  sleep  an’  in  hur  wake,  about  that  re¬ 
venge,  but  never  heerd  how  ’twas  got.” 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


255 


“’Twas  got,”  said  the  Man  of  Wonders,  pointing 
to  a  suspicious-looking  bundle  of  twisted  osiers  by 
the  side  of  Cu  Allee,  “  ’twas  got,  I’m  sartin,  in  the 
ould  way,  by  the  gad  an’  the  cross-sticks.” 

“’Twas  got,”  exclaimed  Cu  Allee  fiercely,  “on 
the  day  that  Murrogh  an’  Theothawn’s  captain,  with 
his  guard  about  him,  gave  into  my  hands  Rory 
Finn,  the  black  and  cursed  miner  of  my  young  sis¬ 
ter.  The  clink  of  the  Sassenach’s  gold  was  sweet ; 
but  far  sweeter  was  Rory’s  groan  to  my  ears,  when 
he  knew  his  time  was  come.  We  placed  the  cross¬ 
sticks  beneath  the  walls  of  Kilcolman ;  and  I  —  I 
faced  Black  Rory  towards  the  darkened  home  and 
the  churchyard  where  she  slept  near,  and  sent  him, 
for  good  or  forbad,  to  follow  her  to  his  last  account. 
Many  is  the  gad  I  twisted  about  the  neck  of  Gael 
and  Sassenach  ;  but  the  one  that  finished  my  mortal 
foe,  Rory  Finn,  —  and  I  have  it  here  beside  me, — 
was  the  most  precious  of  all.” 

“Hurself  would  take  it  by  the  strong  hand  an’ 
the  sharp  soord,  as  hur  did  last  night,”  rejoined 
Foiling  Dearg. 

“Or,”  said  the  Man  of  Wonders,  holding  out  his 
long,  bright  skeau  in  his  hand,  “  or  by  manes  o’ 
this,  as  a  sartin  person  did  not  long  ago  in  Kilken¬ 
ny.  Listen ;  for  it  is  one  o’  the  charmin’  things  that 
brought  me  into  the  sarvice  o’  the  prayer-canters, 
—  the  bloody,  timber-faced  Parliaminthers.  I  was 
standin’  in  a  sthreet  in  Kilkenny,  before  the  doore 
of  a  big  forge  where  the  smiths  from  home  an’  from 


256 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


furriii  parts  wor  liaminerin’  an’  sledgin’  away  at 
soords  an’  pikes  an’  armor  an’  skeans,  the  dead 
brother  o’  this  I  hould  in  ray  hand.  I  was  standin’, 
doin’  a  few  tricks  o’  sleight-o’-hand,  an’  givin’  a  few 
summersets  in  the  way  o’  my  business ;  an’  the 
smiths,  with  their  black  faces  an’  brawny  arms,  wor 
beginnin’  to  throw  away  their  hammers  an’  sledges, 
an’  come  to  the  doores  an’  windows,  lookin’  at  me, 
when  who  should  come  along  at  the  other  side  o’ 
the  street  but  a  grand  bishop,  or  cardinal,  with  five  or 
six  big  fellows,  like  sogers,  w'alkin’,  some  behind  him 
an’  some  before,  with  drawn  soords  in  their  hands. 
He  looks  at  the  smiths  all  idle,  an’  the  arms  wantin’ 
so  much  for  the  war ;  an’  he  looks  at  me  playin’  my 
capers  in  the  street.  He  said  sorathin’  to  the  men 
in  a  furrin  language ;  an’  three  o’  them  made  over 
to  me,  an’  laid  hoult  o’  me  worse  than  if  I  was 
caught  in  a  big  vise  in  one  o’  the  forges,  an’  then 
banged  and  bate  me  with  their  sword  handles  off  o’ 
the  street.  I  said  nothin’,  but  followed  them  for  a 
while,  till  the  man  that  laid  hoult  on  me  first  was 
sent  on  a  message  beyond  one  o’  the  gates  o’  the 
town-wall.  I  waited  in  the  j)orch  for  the  bloody 
villain ;  an’,  when  he  was  cornin’  past  me,  I  gave 
this  sportin’  skean  o’  mine  a  nate  night’s  lodgin’  in 
his  side,  an’  fled  for  my  life,  an’  won  the  race  like  a 
man.” 

One  part  of  this  most  edifying  conversation, 
namely,  Foiling  Dearg’s  allusion  to  his  deed  of  the 
j^receding  night,  interested  the  listener  outside  not 


THE  WnirKTHORN  TREE. 


257 


a  little,  wanting,  as  lie  did,  to  lind  some  clue  to  the 
death  of  his  comrade  ;  but  it  seemed,  on  the  iiresent 
occasion,  he  had  business  of  even  more  importance 
to  himself  to  transact  with  these  w'orthies ;  so,  mak¬ 
ing  a  slight  noise  as  a  signal  of  his  approach,  he 
walked  round  to  the  large  aperture  in  order  to 
enter.  Na  Meerval,  when  they  heard  the  sound  in¬ 
side,  crept  out  with  the  agility  of  a  weasel,  through 
the  small  chink;  so,  when  the  young  horseman 
entered,  he  was  somewhat  surprised  at  finding  only 
two  inside. 

“I  thought,”  said  he  to  Foiling  Dearg,  the  moment 
he  had  entered,  “  that  Na  Meerval  sat  by  your  side 
now.” 

“Na  Meei^val  stands  by  your  side,”  answered 
Foiling  Dearg,  eyeing  the  visitor  darkly. 

That  lively  personage,  having  entered  at  the 
large  aperture  as  stealthily  as  he  before  made  his 
exit,  stood  close  at  the  side  of  the  horseman. 

“Theige  Na  Meerval  is  here,”  said  he,  “When 
he  found  the  fern-seed  by  the  Robber’s  Well,  the 
Shee  Geeha  became  his  comrade ;  for  he  eould  make 
himself  be  seen  or  not  be  seen,  whenever  he  took  it 
into  his  head.  Shane  na  Shrad  knew  this  before,  I 
think.” 

Shane  na  Shrad,  or  John  of  the  Bridle,  — a  name, 
by  the  way,  which  the  young  soldier  had  got  in 
consequence  of  his  feats  of  horsemanship,  —  was  too 
sharp-witted  to  be  deceived  so  readily. 


258 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


“  Shane  na  Shrad  knows,”  he  said,  “  that  there  is 
a  chink,  besides  the  door,  in  this  cavern.” 

“Fwhat  does  hur  come  for  now?”  queried  Foi¬ 
ling  Dearg,  who,  although  he  pretty  well  knew  the 
purport  of  the  visit,  wanted  to  obtain  some  infor¬ 
mation  from  John  of  the  Bridle.  “  To-morrow  is 
hur  great  day  by  the  walls  of  Caishlean  na  Boon; 
but  Theige  Foiling  Dearg  knows,  that,  like  a  flock 
of  wild  ducks  from  the  springs,  the  Gael  will  be 
scatthered  soon  by  Murrogh  of  the  Burnings  and 
his  brave  Sassenachs.” 

“  Murrogh  and  his  starved  wolves  are  not  likely 
to  do  so  at  present,”  said  John  of  the  Bridle. 
“  Yoxi,  I  know,  and  your  two  comrades,  are  on  the 
scent  for  news,  to  be  paid  for  it  by  the  ^old  of  Black 
Murrogh  of  Inchiquin.  We  keep  it  no  secret  that 
before  long  we’ll  be  passing  the  Bridge  of  Done- 
raile;  and  you  and  its  defenders  may  dream  of 
what’s  to  follow,  while  our  troopers  are  dancing 
with  the  girls  for  a  day  or  two  beside  the  green 
woods  of  Castle  na  Doon.” 

“In  my-niind,”  said  Na  Meerval,  “some  o’  them 
will  caper  a  quarer  dance  in  a  short  time,  undher  a 
kind  o’  three  where  they’ll  have  only  the  wind  for  a 
floor,  an’  Cu  Allee’s  thrue-lover’s  knot  about  their 
necks.” 

Cu  Alice,  although  he  principally  exercised  his 
o'cnius  in  the  enviable  profession  of  a  skibbioch,  or 
hangman,  never  relished  a  jibe,  however,  on  that 
score. 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


259 


“  Cu  Alice’s  knot,”  he  exclaimed,  “  was  once  round 
your  neck ;  and,  only  he  let  you  practise  your 
sleight-of-hand  upon  it,  you’d  dance  the  skibbioch’s 
jig.  But  the  next  time !  ” 

“No  more  of  this,”  said  John  of  the  Bridle.  “I 
came,”  he  continued,  addressing  Foiling  Dearg, 
“that  you  may  now  redeem  the  promise  you  gave 
me  when  we  last  met  among  the  mountains.  Where 
is  Alice  O’Brien  ?  ” 

Foiling  Dearg’s  face  darkened  as  he  spoke.  “  Hur 
has  searched  hill-side  an’  coom  an’  town  an’  forest 
since  for  a  colleen  with  a  thrue  heart,  like  the  one 
you  towld  hur  of,  but  never  found  one  since.  May¬ 
be  the  Black  Sassenach  captain  could  tell  all  about 
hur.” 

“  Is  this,  then,”  said  the  horseman,  “  the  way  you 
pay  me  for  giving  you  your  life  when  the  troopers 
were  about  cutting  you  in  pieces,  and  Moran  O’Brien 
standing  with  his  skean  at  your  throat  ?  ” 

Foiling  Dearg  laid  his  hand  on  his  skean,  as  if  to 
guard  against  the  consequences  of  what  he  was 
about  to  say.  “Iss,  maybe  Moran  O’Brien  knows 
by  this  what  it  is  to  put  a  skean  to  a  brave  man’s 
throat,  an’  threaten  him  with  death.  An’  Alice, 
hur  is  false  to  Shane  na  Slirad  as  well  as  to  —  to 
Foiling  Dearg;  an’,”  he  continued,  with  a  deadly 
and  vindictive  sneer  upon  his  lip,  “  hur  can  now 
smile  upon  the  Black  Captain  in  the  camp-tents  o’ 
Murrogh  the  Burner.” 

“L}^ing  villain,”  exclaimed  the  horseman,  “here 


260 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


is  paymeut  for  your  treachery.”  And,  suddenly 
drawing  out  his  sword,  he  struck  Foiling  Dearg 
with  its  pummel  upon  the  forehead.  Foiling  Dearg 
reeled,  and  fell  among  the  heath  in  the  corner  of 
the  cavern.  But,  recovering  in  a  moment,  he  sprang 
to  his  feet  with  the  fury  and  agility  of  a  panther, 
and,  seizing  a  long  sword  that  lay  against  the  wall 
beside  him,  struck  at  the  horseman  a  blow  that 
would  have  gone,  spite  of  guard  and  helmet,  to  his 
brain,  had  not  the  blade,  as  it  swang  upwards,  come 
against  the  low  roof  of  the  cave,  and  shivered  into 
a  hundred  fragments.  At  this  moment,  and  while 
both  were  preparing  to  dash  again  at  each  other, 
the  two  hopeful  spectators  of  the  encounter  rushed 
between  them. 

“We’ll  have  no  more  fightin’  to-night,”  said  the 
Man  of  Wonders:  “Shane  na  Shrad  saved  Cu 
Allee’s  life,  an’,  afther  that,  Cu  Allee  saved  my  life ; 
so  ’tis  Shane  I  must  thank  that  all  the  ravens  in  the 
country  haven’t  me  in  their  hungry  craws  at  pres¬ 
ent.  So  we’ll  stand  to  Shane  na  Shrad  this  time, 
an’  have  no  bloodshed  to-night  in  our  nate  an’  pace¬ 
ful  little  castle.” 

“  Stand  to  hur,  then,”  said  Foiling  Dearg ;  and, 
with  that,  he  sprung,  skean  in  hand,  at  the  horse¬ 
man.  But  he  missed  his  aim;  for,  at  the  same 
moment,  Cu  Allee  threw  his  long  arms  around  his 
knees,  and  dragged  him  by  main  force  to  the  other 
corner  of  the  cave,  where,  with  his  face  streaming 
blood,  he  stood  struggling  and  glaring  like  a  wound¬ 
ed  wolf  upon  his  antagonist. 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


261 


“Leave  us,”  cried  Cu  Allee,  his  wrath  kindling 
with  his  exertions,  “  leave  us,  I  say,  or  curp  an’ 
dhonl !  there  will  be  soon  blood  enough  upon  this 
floor.” 

“I  go,  then,”  said  the  horseman,  perhaps  not 
depending  on  the  sincerity  of  their  promise  to  stand 
to  him  in  the  quarrel  ;  “  but  remember.  Foiling 
Dearg,  that  Shane  na  Shrad’s  vow  of  vengeance 
was  never  made  in  vain.”  And,  with  that,  he  de- 
j:)arted  from  the  cavern,  mounted  his  steed,  and  left 
the  trio  to  their  pleasant  converse  inside. 

The  moon  had  now  risen  over  the  hills,  and  gave 
him  light  as  he  pursued  his  way  through  a  pass  on 
the  eastern  flank  of  the  mountain  he  was  just  about 
to  ascend.  At  the  furthest  extremity  of  the  pass 
he  reined  in  his  horse  for  a  time,  to  gaze  on  a  scene 
that  opened  on  his  view.  Beneath  him,  in  the  calm 
moonlight,  and  checkered  with  the  remains  of  an 
ancient  Arrest,  lay  the  undulating  and  romantic  val¬ 
ley  of  Cloghanofty,  with  the  dark  fort  of  Castle  na 
Doon  rising  on  a  height  at  one  side ;  and  the  Oun 
na  Geerit,  or  River  of  the  Champion,  after  descend¬ 
ing  the  mountain  range  opposite  the  castle,  winding 
in  many  a  silver  coil  through  the  low,  marshy 
grounds  and  indistinct  woodlands.  Further  on,  a 
vista  opened  between  a  wood-clad  hill  on  one  side, 
and  the  ruin-crowned  height  of  Ardpatrick  on  the 
other;  showing  the  level  plain  of  Limerick  veiled  in 
a  light  blue  mist,  through  which  river  and  height 
and  castle  peered  out,  like  the  indistinct  and 


262 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


varying  panorama  of  a  dream.  But  what  most 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  young  soldier  was  a 
number  of  fires  which  glimmered  redly  upon  the 
lawn  that  spread  before  the  dark  castle  beneath 
him.  They  were  the  watch-fires  of  the  cavalry  who 
made  their  camp  here,  waiting  to  join  Lord  Castle- 
liaven,  who  was  marching  at  this  time  at  the  head 
of  a  well-appointed  Irish  army  from  the  county  of 
Tipperary.  John  of  tlie  Bridle,  after  descending 
from  the  pass,  entered  a  small  but  neatly-kept  cot¬ 
tage, -at  the  end  of  the  straggling  village  of  Fannys- 
town.  His  mother,  a  light-haired,  good-humored 
looking  matron,  the  daughter  of  an  English  settler, 
stood  up  as  he  entered ;  and,  expressing  her  glad¬ 
ness  at  his  safe  return,  told  a  little  boy,  who  sat 
luxuriously  in  the  corner  by  the  fire,  to  see  after  her 
son’s  horse. 

“  Wisha !  ”  said  the  urchin,  with  a  groan  of  tribu¬ 
lation,  as  he  went  out,  “’tis  horses  an’  horses  for¬ 
ever.  I  never  stopt  all  day  but  houldin’  horses  for 
them  father-long-legs  o’  cavalthry,  an’  now  I  must 
be  at  it  agin.  I  liked  their  prancin’  an’  gambadin’ 
first  well  enough,  but  afther  to-day  my  likin’  for  it  is 
spilt  entirely.” 

The  young  soldier  sat  ruefully  by  the  fire;  and, 
turning  to  his  mother,  told  her  of  the  failure  of  his 
search  for  Alice  O’Brien,  and  of  the  death  of  her 
brother  Moran.  These  were  times  when  death 
was  of  but  small  account  in  the  mind  of  either  man 
or  woman  ;  and  John’s  mother  was  more  apprehen- 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


2G3 


sive  for  the  safety  of  her  son  than  shocked  or  fright¬ 
ened  at  the  death  of  his  comrade. 

“1  would  wish,  John,”  she  said,  “that  you  had 
long  ago  given  up  your  mad  ideas  about  that  silly 
wench,  Alice.  Was  it  not  better  that  you  had 
taken  my  advice  on  the  matter,  when  you  could 
mate  better  with  Amy,  Neighbor  Holton’s  daugh¬ 
ter  ?  ” 

“No,  mother,”  said  John:  “I  have  the  hot  Irish 

m 

blood  of  my  father  running  in  my  veins,  and  I  will 
have  full  vengeance  for  the  death  of  my  comrade. 
I  have  obeyed  you  in  every  thing  else ;  but  ask  me 
not  to  give  up  Alice,  for  it  is  useless.  To-morrow 
will,  I  hope,  bring  me  somfe  news  of  her  fate.” 

The  morrow  was  shining  in  all  the  glory  of  sum¬ 
mer  upon  the  woody  dells  of  Fannystown,  and  the 
gi’ay  hills  that  towered  above  them  ;  but  with  the 
new  day  and  its  many  incidents  it  is  better  to  com¬ 
mence  a  new  chapter. 


CHAPTEK  II 

Until  yellow  Autumn  shall  usher  the  Paschal  day, 

And  Patrick’s  gay  festival  come  in  its  train  alway ; 

Until  through  my  coffin  the  blossoming  boughs  shall  grow, 
My  love  on  another  I’ll  never  in  life  bestow. 

E.  Walsh. 

Fanxystown  was  at  this  time  what  was  called 
a  protected  village ;  tliat  is,  the  soldiers  of  the 
Government,  though  often  resting  there,  were  not 


264 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


permitted  to  plunder  its  inhabitants.  It  would, 
however,  probably  have  been  plundered  and  de¬ 
stroyed,  had  it  not  been  such  a  convenient  resting 
and  camping  place,  situated  as  it  w'as  in  the  most 
dangerous,  yet  most  easily  defended,  pass  between 
the  plains  of  Cork  and  Limerick.  It  consisted  of  a 
long  line  of  mud-built  houses  at  one  side  of  the  pub¬ 
lic  way  ;  lowly  dwellings  indeed,  but  at  the  same 
time  so  thickly  planted  that  it  gave  one  the  notion, 
when  on  some  important  day  the  inhabitants  were 
astir,  of  a  row  of  beehives,  with  all  their  busy 
denizens  moving  to  and  fro  at  the  commencement 
of  their  morning  avocations.  Behind  the  village, 
upon  a  height,  stood  the  mansion  of  Sir  John  Pon- 
sonby,  looking  down  upon  the  bright  waters  of  the 
Oun  na  Geerait, —  a  stream  rising  in  a  deep  gorge 
between  the  mountains,  and  dancing  by  many  a 
wild  dell  and  picturesque  hollow  until  it  lost  its 
waters  in  the  rapid  Fuucheon.  The  square,  loop- 
holed  turrets  at  the  corners  of  the  mansion  showed 
that  its  owner  had  not  neglected  the  defence 
wanted  so  much  in  those  stormy  times;  but  the 
rows  of  bow -windows  in  the  front,  facing  the 
stream,  gave  it  a  gay  appeai*ance,  -which  contrasted 
strangely  with  the  aspect  of  its  stern  neighbor  at 
the  other  side  of  the  valley,  —  the  compact  Castle 
of  the  Fort ;  or,  as  it  was  named  by  the  surround¬ 
ing  people,  Caishlan  na  Boon.  This  was  one  of 
those  tall,  square  keeps,  so  many  of  which  still 
frown  from  their  rocky  sites  along  the  neighboring 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


265 


plain  ;  telling  in  their  decay,  with  as  much  certainty 
as  the  pen  of  the  historian,  of  the  troublous  times 
in  which  they  were  built,  and  the  domestic  habits 
of  the  waning  races  to  whom  they  owed  their 
foundations.  It  is  now  considerably  increased  in 
dimensions  by  additions  suited  to  the  present  day, 
and  has  rather  a  modernized  appearance;  but  ]>art 
of  the  orimnal  buildin"  still  remains.  At  the  time 
of  the  following  events,  it  was  inhabited  by  Sir 
Edward  Fitzharris,  a  Catholic  gentleman,  who,  like 
his  neighbor.  Sir  John  Ponsonby,  favored  the  prin¬ 
ciples  of  the  Confederation  of  Kilkenny. 

It  was  hi^h  noon  when  John  of  the  Bridle  dashed 

O 

his  horse  across  the  stream,  and  rode  up  towards 
the  camp  upon  the  lawn  before  Castle  na  Boon. 

“  Mononi !  why  is  she  so  long,  an’  the  curnil  axin 
for  her  ?  ”  said  an  old  war-worn  trooper,  who  stood 
guard  at  the  entrance  of  the  camp. 

“The  news  I  have  to  tell  him  will  be  likely 
to  set  you  and  your  comrades  at  work,  Diarraid,” 
answered  John  of  the  Bridle.  “  Here,  Jennny,”  he 
continued,  addressing  a  wild,  elfish-looking  little 
urchin,  —  the  same  who  had  seen  to  his  horse’s  com¬ 
fort  on  the  preceding  night,  —  “  take  this  bridle,  and 
hold  my  horse  till  I  come  out;  and,  mind,  no  gallop¬ 
ing  this  time,  for,  I  fear,  the’ poor  fellow  will  get 
enough  to-day.”  Jemmy,  whose  gusto  for  horseflesh, 
notwithstanding  his  heart-rending  complaints  on  the 
evening  before,  was  increased  with  tenfold  strength 
during  the  morning,  took  the  bridle ;  and  scarcely 


266 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


was  the  horseman  out  of  sight  behind  the  tents  when 
he  was  up,  like  a  cat,  in  the  saddle,  and  careering 
with  unheard-of  speed  over  the  lawn. 

John  of  the  Bridle  entered  the  castle,  and  was  led 
by  another  sentinel  up  a  dark,  winding  stair  into  a 
gloomy-looking  chamber,  where  the  colonel  who 
commanded  the  cavalry,  with  a  few  officers,  sat  plan¬ 
ning  busily  their  future  movements. 

“  The  general  will  be  here  with  the  whole  army 
in  a  few  days,”  said  the  colonel :  “  and,  on  the  faith 
of  a  soldier!  I  wish  we  may  see  him  sooner;  for  I  like 
not  sitting,  like  a  hermit,  here  when  there  is  so  much 
to  be  done  for  our  brave  fellows.  Ha !  ”  continued 
he,  turning  to  John,  as  he  entered,  “here comes  our 
worthy  scout ;  perchance  he  may  inform  us  how  the 
Burner  and  his  canting  vagabonds  are  preparing  for 
our  onslaught.  The  passes  towards  St.  Leger’s  den 
are  free  for  the  expedition  on  to-morrow,  young 
man  ?  ” 

“  The  passes  are  clear  enough,  colonel ;  but,  as  I 
rode  yesterday  through  the  forest  by  Doneraile,  a 
shot  fi-om  a  falconet  was  near  ending  my  outriding. 
There  are  three  more  on  the  battlements  of  St. 
Loger’s  Castle,  and  the  walls  are  thronged  with 
men.” 

“I  trust,”  rejoined  the  colonel,  “to  the  broad 
mouths  of  our  long  field-pieces  to  silence  them  ;  but 
God  knows  how  we  shall  circumvent  those  rieving 
villians  who  yet  hang  on  our  march.  Hast  thou  seen 
that  murdering  troop  that  burned  the  two  western 
hamlets  ?  ” 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


267 


“No,  colonel:  they  are  fled  towards  the  Kerry 
border.  Another  small  troop  I  saw  coming  out 
from  Doneraile,  and  preparing  to  scour  the  hills;  but 
they’ll  meet  but  a  sorry  welcome  from  the  wild 
horsemen  of  Ballyhoura.” 

The  colonel  here  took  a  sealed  packet  from  the 
table,  and  put  it  into  the  hands  of  the  young  horse¬ 
man.  “Thy  .services,”  he  said,  “will  merit  the  re¬ 
ward  thou  seekest.  Deliver  this  safely  to  the 
Governor  of  Kihnallock,  and  thou  shalt  have  thy 
commission  as  captain  of  thy  troop,  and  that  speedi- 
ly.  I  know  of  no  other,”  said  he,  addressing  the 
officers,  as  John  of  the  Bridle  was  led  down  stairs  by 
the  sentinel,  —  “I  know  of  none  who  so  marvellously 
finds  his  way  through  those  cursed  bogs  and  scroggy 
passes,  and  who  hath  such  a  goodly  share  of  true 
courage,  as  that  young  man.” 

As  John  turned  his  horse  in  the  direction  of  Kil- 
mallock,  he  thought  of  the  events  of  the  preceding 
day,  and  how  Ellen  Roche  would  bear  the  news  of 
her  lover’s  death.  “  But  I  cannot  be  at  the  dance,” 
he  said,  giving  his  horse  the  spur,  “  if  I  don’t  make 
my  way  quicker  than  this.” 

At  the  back  of  Fanny stown  village  was  a  green  in 
a  hollow,  through  the  midst  of  which  ran  the  Oun 
na  Geerait,  after  emerging  from  a  narrow,  tangled 
glen  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain.  The  slope  around 
it  was  clothed  with  scattered  brushwood ;  and,  where 
it  lost  itself  in  the  level  space  at  one  side,  rose  an 
aged  and  giant  elm-tree,  around  the  trunk  of  which 


268 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


the  villagers,  with  some  of  the  horsemen  from  the 
camp,  were  thronging  to  hear  the  strains  of  a  gray¬ 
haired  piper,  who  talked  and  laughed  among  them  as 
merrily  as  if  he  was  in  the  very  heyday  of  his  youth. 
Around  him  were  gathered  the  girls  and  young  men 
of  the  village,  with  an  occasional  troojDer,  looking 
for  partners,  and  arranging  themselves  in  two  rows 
hieing  each  other,  in  order  to  commence  the  HinJcey- 
fodha.,  or  long  dance,  a  figure  much  resembling  the 
contra-dances  of  the  present  day :  while  outside  and 
half  surrounding  the  group  sat  the  more  aged 
dwellers  of  the  hamlet ;  and  beyond,  upon  the  green, 
stood  the  children  in  little  groups,  looking  with 
gleeful  and  expectant  faces  for  the  commencement  of 
the  amusements.  The  long  dance  was  ended,  and 
many  an  intricate  and  merry  measure  danced  after¬ 
wards  by  separate  groups  of  four  each  :  at  length,  a 
weariness  seemed  to  fall  upon  them,  and  they  sat 
around  the  piper,  entreating  him  to  play  some  of 
those  slow,  wild  tunes  so  peculiar  to  the  country. 
Among  the  supplicants  for  the  tune  was  a  daik-eyed 
young  girl,  who  accompanied  her  request  with  so 
sweet  a  smile  that  the  old  man  commenced  at  once 
tuning  his  pipes,  with  a  variety  of  running  tones, 
which,  to  the  children  at  least,  proved  precursors  of  the 
most  delicious  and  enchanting  melody.  This  young 
maiden  was  Ellen  Koche,  the  betrothed  of  Moran 
O’Brien  ;  but  who  little  knew,  amid  the  gladness  that 
reigned  around  her,  of  the  miseries  awaiting  her,  and 
of  the  sad  doom  of  her- lover.  Her  black  hair  fell 


THE  WIIITETHOUN  TREE. 


269 


in  shining  masses  upon  her  pretty  shoulders,  setting 
off  a  light  and  graceful  figure,  and  a  sweet  face,  to 
which  the  brilliant  and  dark  eyes  gave  an  expression 
at  once  animated  and  lovely. 

“ Wirrasthru ! ”  said  the  piper:  “my  ould  fingers 
are  almost  as  stiff  as  that  long  soord  o’  Jack  Flana¬ 
gan’s  there.  But  every  thing’s  gettin  stiff,  as  dhrunk- 
on  Bill  Breen  said,  when  his  wife  refused  to  swally  a 
whole  barrelful  of  ale  in  one  dhrink.  Well,  I  had 
my  day  out  o’  the  world  at  any  rate.”  And,  so  say¬ 
ing,  he  struck  up  an  ancient  Irish  march,  or  war-tune, 
with  such  effect  that  the  eyes  of  the  young  strip¬ 
lings  around  him  began  to  sparkle,  and  even  the 
hands  of  the  wild  troopers  began  to  move  instinct¬ 
ively  towards  their  sword  -  hilts  ;  so  easily  were 
the  rugged  and  simple  natures  of  those  times  and 
scenes  moved  and  excited  by  the  power  of  the  musi¬ 
cian. 

“  Come,  an’  sit  down  here  by  my  side,  my  sweet 
flower,”  said  he,  addressing  Ellen  Roche,  when  the 
war-tune  was  ended.  “  Come,  an’  ’I’ll  play  up  your 
favorite  tune ;  an’  —  whisht,  ye  rantin’  divils  !  —  an’ 
you’ll  sing  the  oulcl  song  I  lamed  you  long  ago, 
about  the  young  throoper,  —  anater  fellow  than  any 
o’  ye’ll  ever  be  anyhow,  ye  tarin’  thieves,”  he  con¬ 
tinued,  turning  to  the  horsemen.  Ellen  sat  upon 
the  bank  beside  him  ;  and,  when  the  talk  was  silenced, 
he  commenced  to  play  a  singularly  sweet  old  tune, 
which  the  young  maiden  accompanied  in  a  soft  and 
tender  voice,  with  the  words  of  an  Irish  ballad,  of 


270 


THE  WHlTETHOliN  TBEE. 


which  the  following  may  be  taken  as  a  transla^ 
tion :  — 


“JOHNNY  DUNLEA. 

“  There’s  a  tree  in  the  greenwood  I  love  best  of  all, — 

It  stands  by  the  side  of  Easmor’s  haunted  fall,  — 

Eor  there,  while  the  sunset  fell  bright  far  away, 

Last  I  met  ’neath  its  branches  my  Johnny  Dunlea. 

Oh  !  to  see  his  fine  form,  as  he  rode  down  the  hill. 

While  the  red  sunlight  glowed  on  his  helmet  of  steel. 
With  his  broadsword  and  charger,  so  gallant  and  gay, 

On  that  evening  of  woe  for  my  Johnny  Dunlea  ! 

He  stood  by  my  side ;  and  the  love-smile  he  wore 
Still  brightens  my  heart,  tho’  ’twill  beam  never  more. 
’Twas  to  have  but  one  farewell,  then  speed  to  the  fray  ; 
'Twas  a  farewell  for  ever,  my  Johnny  Dunlea! 

For  the  fierce  Saxon  soldiers  lay  hid  in  the  dell. 

And  burst  on  our  meeting  with  wild  savage  yell ; 

But  their  dark  leader’s  life-blood  I  saw  that  sad  day. 

And  it  stained  the  good  sword  of  my  Johnny  Dunlea. 

My  curse  on  the  traitor !  my  curse  on  the  ball 
That  stretched  my  true  love  by  Easmor’s  haunted  fall ! 
Oh  !  the  blood  of  his  brave  heart  ebbed  quickly  away. 
And  he  died  in  my  arms  there,  my  Johnny  Dunlea !  ” 

Alas  !  little  thought  the  fair  singer  at  the  moment, 
that  her  own  was  a  fate  like  that  of  the  poor  maiden 
of  the  song.  During  the  song,  had  any  person 
'  looked  behind  where  the  branches  of  the  elm-tree 
drooped  against  the  slope,  they  might  have  seen  a 
pair  of  bright,  cunning  eyes  peering  out  between  the 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


271 


leaves  of  the  copse  at  the  person  of  the  singer. 
There  was  an  expression  in  those  weasel  eyes  that 
boded  no  good  to  Ellen  Roche :  but  the  pair, 
blight  and  keen  as  they  were,  had  not  the  fortune  to 
belong  to  a  weasel;  they  were  the  property  of  a 
handsome  and  nimble-looking  little  man,  who  lay 
upon  his  breast,  gazing  thus,  but  well  concealed  from 
the  observation  of  the  villagers.  The  moment  the 
song  was  ended,  and,  while  the  attention  of  all  was 
taken  up  in  giving  the  due  meed  of  afiplause,  the 
little  man  swung  himself  cautiously  into  a  projecting 
branch  of  the  elm-tree ;  and  moving  noiselessly  along 
the  gnarled  limbs,  as  if  he  had  learned  the  mefliod 
from  a  squirrel,  he  perched  liimself  for  a  moment 
among  the  thick  leaves  upon  another  branch  which 
drooped  over  the  centre  of  the  throng  below.  Sud¬ 
denly  he  let  himself  drop  into  the  midst  of  the  circle ; 
and,  before  any  one  knew  how  he  had  come  there,  he 
had  performed  half  a  dozen  “  summersets  ”  upon  the 
green. 

“  Theige  na  Meerval !  Theige  na  Meerval !  ”  cried 
the  delighted  children. 

“Theige  na  Meerval  himself!”  exclaimed  their 
elders..  “  Honom  an’  dhoul!  but  I  believe  he’s 
after  failin’  out  o’  the  sky.” 

“  Thundher-an-ages,  no !  ”  said  a  trooper.  “  Doesn’t 
every  mother’s  sowl  o’  ye  know  that  he’s  invisible 
when  he  likes,  an’  can  walk  invisible  into  the  centre 
o’  people ;  an’  wid  one  touch  make  himself  be  seen 
agin  by  every  person,  in  one  mortlual  minnit?” 


272 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE 


“  I  did  fall  out  o’  the  sky,”  said  the  Man  of  Won¬ 
ders,  at  the  same  time  cutting  a  few  capers  that  blend¬ 
ed  their  surprise  with  immense  merriment.  “  Where 
is  the  use  in  me  bein’  enchanted,  if  I  cannot  circum- 
vint  myself  into  a  blast  o’  wind  when  I  likes  ?  ” 

The  strains  of  the  poor  piper  were  now  neglected  ; 
and  all  thronged  around  the  showman,  —  for  that  was 
his  particular  and  favorite  profession,  —  and  began  to  ■ 
press  still  closer,  with  open  mouths,  and  faces  of 
wonder  and  expectancy.  Na  Meerval  now  took  a 
strangely-made  knife  from  his  pocket,  and  com¬ 
menced  to  show  off  some  of  his  feats.  Suddenly  he 
sto(?ped  till  his  face  almost  touched  the  ground ; 
and,  amidst  innumerable  “  Monoms !  ”  “Dhar  Dias  !  ” 
and  “Hiernas!”  from  the  astonished  bystanders, 
jerked  himself  up  straight  again,  with  the  blade  of  the 
knife  sticking  upwards  through  his  tongue.  He  now 
beckoned  for  more  space ;  and,  when  he  found  suffi¬ 
cient,  he  stooped  forward  with  his  hands  resting  on 
the  ground,  and,  springing  over,  stood  upon  his  feet 
again,  holding  the  knife  aloft  in  his  hand. 

“Ha,  ha!”  he  exclaimed,  “if  all  o’  ye  used  your 
knives  that  way,  maybe  ’tis  little  soft  talk  ye’d  be 
able  to  give  the  girls  afterwards.  Did  ye  ever  hear 
where  I  wint  the  first  time  I  made  myself  invisible  ? 
Divil  a  place  would  plaise  me  but  Spain,  to  larn 
magic  from  an  ould  anshint  thief,  that  was  as  great 
as  two  pickpockets  with  the  Ould  Oganach  *  himself. 
He  could  see  me  when  no  one  else  could  ;  an’  I  stopt 


*  The  Devil, 


THE  WHITETHORN'  TREE. 


273 


with  him  ’till  the  murtherin’  ould  thief  turned  me 
away  out  of  invy,  when  he  saw  I  was  batin’  out  him¬ 
self.  Plowsomdever,  I’ll  show  ye  somethin’  that  he 
lamed  me.”  And,  so  saying,  he  raised  his  hand,  and, 
apparently  to  his  audience,  struck  himself  lightly  on 
the  mouth.  A  volume  of  bluish  smoke,  accompanied 
with  bright  sparks,  issued  suddenly  from  between 
his  open  jaws ;  at  the  appearance  of  which  the  specta¬ 
tors,  so  delighted  were  they  at  the  marvel,  set  up  a 
wdld  shout  of  applause  and  wonder. 

“  There  is  one  thing,  howsomdever,”  said  he  again, 
“that  every  person  bates  me  at, —gamin’.”  And 
walking  to  a  smooth  stone,  which  served  for  a  seat, 
he  drew  from  his  pocket  a  dice-box,  and  laid  it  beside 
him.  “Now,”  continued  he,  turning  to  the  troop¬ 
ers,  at  the  same  time  laying  two  silver  coins  upon  the 
stone,  “ye  were  paid  not  long  ago,  an’  here  is  a 
flamin’  fine  time  to  make  the  forthin’  of  every  livin’ 
sowl  among  ye.” 

“  I  made  my  forthin’  once  in  the  sackin’  of  a  town, 
an’  lost  agin  every  jingler  of  it  in  battle;  an’  now 
gamin’  won’t  remake  it  for  me,”  said  a  huge,  stern¬ 
looking  trooper,  with  the  marks  of  a  great  sword-cut 
across  his  face. 

“  Well,  purshuin’  to  me,  do  you  hear  that?”  said 
a  jolly,  careless  fellow,  who  was  already  seated  by  Na 
Meerval’s  side,  with  the  dice-box  rattling  in  his  hand, 
and  his  stake  down:  “Mun  Callaghan,  that  would 
sell  himself  to  a  certain  curious  gintleman  undher- 
nathe  us,  body  an’  bones  an’  sowl,  for  money,  sayin’ 

18 


274 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


now  that  there  is  no  varthue  in  gamin’ !  ”  So  say¬ 
ing,  he  threw  and  won.  This  good  fortune  made 
others  eager  for  the  play,  till,  after  various  games, 
most  of  the  troopers  found  the  few  coins  they  pos¬ 
sessed  since  the  last  pay-day  comfortably  transferred 
to  the  pockets  of  Na  Meerval.  He  now  turned  to 
Mun  Callaghan. 

“  You  see  I’m  richer  now  than  when  I  began. 
Come,  an’  larn  the  sweet  an’  inchantin’  mystheries  o’ 
the  dice-box.  Play,  man,  play ;  an,’  as  you’re  so  fond 
o’  the  money,  maybe  you’d  win  it  all  back  again.” 

“  I  will  not  play,”  answered  Mun,  in  an  angry 
tone. 

“Yerrah  !  man,  can’t  you  take  one  chance?”  said 
his  comrades.  “  The  divil  resave  the  much  we’re  at 
a  loss  anyhow  ;  for,  like  yom-self,  ’tis  little  we  had  to' 
lose.  Ructions  to  us,  man  !  why  don’t  yo\i  play  ?  ” 

“Bekaise  I  have  an’  ould  an’  wake  mother  beyont 
the  hills,  wid  no  one  to  purtect  her,  an’  who  wants 
what  I  can  give  her  out  o’  my  pay,  —  not  to  have  me 
lose  id  gamin’,”  answered  Man  bitterly.  This  pro¬ 
duced  a  laugh  among  the  more  careless  of  his  com¬ 
rades  ;  and  the  Man  of  W onders,  emboldened  by  the 
merriment,  overstepped  seemingly  his  usual  cautious¬ 
ness. 

“  Yarrah!”  said  he,  “  maybe  ’twas  batin’  you  with 
a  sthraw  or  a  rish  for  your  conthrairy  doins  your  ould 
mother  was  that  put  that  tattherin’  glin  of  a  wound 
acrass  your  face.  ”  The  answer  was  a  blow  from  the 
ponderous  fist  of  Mun,  which  sent  Na  Meerval  spin- 


I 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE.  275 

ning,  like  a  cork,  along  the  green.  The  blow,  however, 
certainly  stunned  him  somewhat  less  than  he  pre¬ 
tended. 

“  Oh !  ’’said  he,  as  if  waking  from  a  deadly  swoon, 
and  still  lying  extended  on  the  grass,  “  I’m  done  in 
airnest  at  last,  —  kilt  unnathrally.  Here  is  my  brain 
spinnin’  round  an’  round,  like  a  wheel-o’-foi'thin,’  — 
the  rale  sign  o’  death.  Oh !  ”  And  he  sank  apparent¬ 
ly  into  a  swoon  again,  while  the  villagers  gathered 
round  him  in  instant  commiseration  of  his  hard 
fate.  “Is  there  any  good  Christhian,”  he  exclaimed, 
reviving  once  more,  —  “is  there  any  good  an’  chari¬ 
table  Christhian  that  would  lade  me  to  their  home 
till  I  die  in  pace  ?  My  brain  !  my  brain !  Lade  me 
up  to  Moureen  Roche’s,  the  ould  widow  o’  the  hollow, 
where  I  often  slept  before.  Is  that  Ellen  Roche 
I  see  ?  Lade  me,  up  a  colleen  dhas.,  ’till  I  die  in 
pace.” 

He  now  stood  up,  but  tottered ;  and  Ellen  Roche, 
coming  forward,  caught  him  by  the  arm,  and,  assisted 
by  one  of  the  young  men,  began  to  lead  him  up  to 
where  her  mother’s  house  stood  in  a  lonely  hollow 
some  distance  up  the  glen.  After  going  a  few  perch¬ 
es,  Ha  Meerval  seemed  to  get  somewhat  stronger, 
and  told  the  young  man  that  he  could  reach  the 
house  with  the  help  of  Ellen  Roche.  The  young 
man,  possessed  altogether  with  the  idea  of  his  sweet¬ 
heart,  whom  he  saw  looking  with  a  jealous  eye  after 
him,  turned  back  willingly,  just  as  Mun  Callaghan, 
with  many  a  re[)roach  ringing  in  his  ears,  was  stalk- 


•27G  THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 

ing  off  towards  the  camp.  The  incident  was,  how¬ 
ever,  soon  forgotten  in  a  short  time,  and  the  dance 
renewed  as  merrily  as  ever. 

In  the  mean  time  Ellen  Roche,  with  I^a  Meerval 
behind  her,  led  the  way  towards  her  home, ’till  they 
reached  a  lonely  spot  where  the  path  crossed  the  glen  ; 
and  here,  instead  of  dying  in  peace  as  he  promised,  the 
Man  of  Wonders  sprang  at  the  unsuspecting  girl, 
and,  before  she  could  scream  for  help,  tied  a  kerchief 
round  her  face,  which  rendered  her  unable  either  to 
see,  or  call  for  assistance.  He  now  gave  a  low  whistle ; 
and,  at  the  signal,  his  two  comrades  of  the  cave 
stepped  out  from  a  dark  nook  in  the  side  of  the  glen. 
Ellen  Roche,  unlike  the  majority  of  heroines,  did 
not  faint  at  once,  but,  like  the  brave  girl  that  she  was, 
resisted  to  the  utmost  the  efforts  of  the  three,  as 
they  bore  her  through  the  forest  towards  the  pass 
leading  betw^een  the  mountains,  till  at  length,  entire¬ 
ly  exhausted,  she  sank  into  a  passive  kind  of  stu¬ 
por,  in  which  she  continued  until  the  kerchief  was 
taken  off  her  flice. 

On  opening  her  eyes,  she  found  hei’self  in  a  nar¬ 
row  recess  between  two  rocks,  which,  by  way  of 
rendering  it  habitable,  was  roofed  with  boughs  of 
oak,  and  thatched  over  with  bundles  of  heath  and 
fern.  It  was  situated  on  the  side  of  a  deep  glen, 
through  which  the  bright,  bog-tinted  stream  rushed 
downward  with  a  hollow  murmur  ;  and  its  entrance 
opened  towards  a  wide  moor,  whose  undulating  ex¬ 
panse  stretched  out,  drear  and  lonely,  until  it  tei-mi- 


TEE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


277 


nated  in  a  low  range  of  dark  hills  to  the  west.  Out¬ 
side  the  door  of  the  hut,  the  eyes  of  the  young  girl 
fell  upon  two  objects,  each  remarkable  in  its  appear¬ 
ance,  but  4  from  the  possession  of  very  different 
qualities.  One  has  been  described  before  :  it  was  no 
less  than  Cu  Allee,  standing  guard  at  the  entrance ; 
and  the  other  was  the  most  beautiful  whitethorn 
ever  seen  by  human  eyes,  growing  on  the  extremity 
of  a  green  tongue  of  land  at  the  opposite  side  of  the^ 
glen.  It  shot  up  in  a  single  stem  to  about  seven 
feet  from  the  ground,  and  then  branched  into  three 
graceful  arms,  which  extended  themselves  from  side 
to  side,  in  ramifications  so  singularly  light  and  beau¬ 
tiful  that  the  wild  inhabitants  of  the  mountains 
should  not  be  deemed  over-credulous  for  believinsc 
that  the  fairies  trained  its  sprays,  —  upon  whicli  some 
white  blossoms  still  lingered, — to  assume  those  lovely 
forms ;  and  that  they  made  the  little  green  around  it 
one  of  their  most  favored  retreats. 

But,  if  Ellen  Roche  was  surprised  for  an  instant 
at  the  beauty  of  the  whitethorn,  it  was  with  dismay 
and  terror  that  she  gazed  on  the  uncouth  form  of 
Theige  the  Wolf,  whom  she  mistook —  no  great  mis¬ 
take  indeed  —  for  one  of  those  wild  spirits,  who,  in 
the  shape  of  little  red  men,  are  believed  by  the  Irish 
to  haunt  lonely  places  among  the  mountains,  and 
whose  appearance  is  a  sure  sign  of  the  speedy 
doom  of  the  unfortunate  person  who  beholds  them. 
She  looked  upon  him  for  an  instant ;  and,  on  no¬ 
ticing  the  evil  expression  of  his  eyes,  covered  her 


278 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


face  with  her  hands,  and  sank,  in  the  extremity  of  her 
terror,  on  a  stone  seat  which  lay  beside  her,  Cu 
Allee  noticed  her  dismay ;  and,  although  it  did  not 
at  all  advance  her  in  his  good  graces,  he  did  not 
hate  her  as  he*  did  every  one  else,  for  he  began  to 
imagine  some  resemblance  between  her  and  his 
young  sister,  whom  he  had  laid  not  long  ago  in  the 
old  churchyard  of  Doneraile.  In  fact,  in  thinking 
of  his  sister,  the  only  person  for  whom  he  ever  felt 
any  thing  like  affection,  he  began  to  cast  about  in  his 
mind  why  he  stood  guard  there  upon  a  poor  girl  in 
whom  he  recognized  a  similarity  of  appearance,  and 
to  picture  to  himself  how  he  would  feel,  after  doing 
one  good  action,  by  effecting  her  liberation.  It  was 
with  him  as  wdth  all  who  have  turned  on  the  evil 
path  through  life.  The  human  heart,  in  its  inno¬ 
cence,  is  like  a  lovely  bower,  whei’e  the  virtues  with 
their  fair  train  of  good  and  beautiful  thoughts 
make  their  dwelling:  but,  when  the  devil  once  gets 
possession  of  the  keys,  out  go  the  virtues  and  their 
bright  attendants,  and,  though  they  return  frequently 
and  knock  for  admittance,  the  stern  answer  of  the  evil 
demon  inside  scares  them  off,  like  a  flock  of  white 
doves  at  the  yell  of  the  mountain  eagle,  By-and-by 
the  demon  hides  the  keys,  the  bower  withers  and 
becomes  rotten,  and  the  virtues,  led  by  our  good 
angel,  go  searching,  searching,  but,  alas  !  rarely  find 
the  means  of  entrance  to  make  it  bloom  again.  The 
spirit  of  evil,  in  order  to  expel  the  good  intention 
on  this  occasion  from  the  breast  of  Cu  Allee,  thought 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


279 


fit  to  send  a  delegate  in  the  person  of  the  Man 
of  Wonders,  who,  advancing  up  the  glen,  whispered 
something  into  the  ear  of  the  dwarf,  at  which 
he  quitted  his  post,  and  proceeded  with  wonderful 
agility  up  the  mountain  at  the  back  of  the  hut.  Na 
Meerval  entered,  but  2')aused  for  a  time  inside  the 
door  when  he  found  himself  unnoticed  by  Ellen 
Roche,  who,  with  her  face  buried  in  her  mantle,  sat 
still  in  the  same  position  as  when  she  retired  on  see¬ 
ing  Theige  the  Wolf.  At  length  he  spoke :  — 

“Yerrah!  my  dark  flower  o’ the  mountains,  is’nt 
it  unnathral  to  see  you  sittin’  that  way,  as  bronach 
an’  sorrowful  as  if  all  belongin’  to  you  were  laid  out, 
an’  the  wake-candles  burnin’  over  them?” 

Ellen  sat  up,  for  she  knew  the  voice.  “  An’  is  it 
you,”  she  said,  “  you  black-hearted  villain,  that 
spakes  to  me  in  such  a  way,  after  taking  me  away 
from  my  poor  mother,  whose  heart,  I  know,  is  broke 
at  the  news  already  ?  Let  me  go,  I  say.”  And  she 
gathered  her  mantle  around  her,  and  prejoared  to 
dart  from  the  door.  “  Let  me  go,  or  ’twon’t  be  long 
till  some  one  you  know  will  haye  his  heavy  revenge 
on  you  for  this  day’s  work.” 

“Fair  an’  aisy,  Misthress  Ellen,” said  Na  Meerval, 
putting  her  back  gently  to  her  seat.  “  Listen  to 
a  few  words  I  have  to  say,  an’  ’twill  make  you  a  little 
kindlier.” 

“  I  can’t  listen  to  any  thing  but  about  my  laving 
this.  You  know  you  often  got  food  an’  shelter  an’ 
kindness  in  my  mother’s  house,  an’  this  is  not  the 


280 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


way  to  pay  back  those  who  ever  an’  always  helped 
you  in  your  need.” 

“  That  very  shelther  an’  kindness  was  my  desthruc- 
tion ;  for,  from  the  first  night  I  slept  undher  your 
roof,  I  fell  in  love,  —  you  know  with  whom,  —  an  ’tis 
conshumin’  ray  heart  to  cinders  ever  since.  Listen 
to  me  for  a  minnit.  There  is  one  you  think  that’s 
dhramin’  o’  you  raoimin’,  noon,  an’  night.  I  know 
him,  of  coorse.  But  I  tell  you  that  Moran  O’Brien 
has  stopt  thinkiTi’  o’  you  since  yestherday ;  so,  if  he 
promised  to  do  so  always,  he’s  false  to  his  word. 
Take  the  love,  then,  of  a  truer  man,  who’ll  “stick  to 
you  through  life  an’  death.” 

“  It  is  false,”  answered  Ellen  vehemently.  “  Mo¬ 
ran  is  still  true  to  me,  an’  will  be  as  true  to  his  re¬ 
venge  upon  you,  if  you  don’t  let  me  away.” 

“  You  don’t  know  me,  Ellen  Roche.  Thrue  or 
false,  you’ll  never  have  him  for  a  husband,  nor 
have  no  one  else  either,  barrin’  myself.  I  tell  you 
he’ll  never  think  on  you  more;  an’  look  at  this,” 
said  he,  at  the  same  time  drawing  a  small  silver 
cross  from  his  bosom, “if  he  was  true  in  his  heart 
and  soul,  would  he  let  a  purty-faced  crathure,  nearly 
as  nate  as  myself,  take  this  from  round  his  neck? 
Upon  this  blessed  cross,  taken  from  the  neck  of  a 
false  man,  who  never  more  can  see  you,  I  swear  to 
love  you  through  pace  an’  war,  an’  through  life  an’ 
death,  for  ever  an’  ever.” 

Ellen  looked  at  the  cross.  It  was  Moran’s.  She 
bad  herself  placed  it  round  his  neck ;  and  he,  poor 


TEE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


281 


fellow !  had  vowed  at  the  same  time  that  he  would 
never  part  with  it  but  in  death.  Suddenly  the 
thought  flashed  upon  her  mind  that  he  was  dead, — • 
murdered  by  Na  Meerval  and  his  accomplices.  She 
looked  instinctively  at  the  sword  by  ISTa  Meerval’s 
side.  It  was  Moran’s.  The  horrible  reality  burst 
at  once  upon  her  mind  ;  and,  with  a  piercing  and  ag¬ 
onizing  shriek,  she  sank  senseless  on  the  floor  of  the 
hut. 

On  awakening  from  her  swoon,  she  found  herself 
lying  upon  some  soft  heath  in  another  apartment. 
A  wooden  vessel  filled  with  water  lay  beside  her 
upon  a  flat  stone,  with  some  bread.  This  she  was 
enabled  to  observe  by  a  few  streams  of  red  light 
which  darted  inwards  through  the  chinks  of  an  old 
wooden  door  which  separated  the  recess  in  which 
she  lay  from  the  outer  one.  She  cautiously  arose, 
and,  looking  through  one  of  the  chinks,  'Saw  Na 
Meerval  and  his  two  comrades  sitting  round  a  heap 
of  blazing  wood  in  the  apartment  she  had  occupied 
on  the  preceding  evening ;  for  it  was  now  far 
advanced  in  the  night.  She  turned  round  in  silent 
misery  and  fear,  and,  sinking  her  face  once,  more  in 
the  folds  of  her  mantle,  sat  in  her  despair  until 
another  morning  was  shining  gloriously  over  the 
gray  summits  and  deep  valleys  that  surrounded  her. 


282 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


CHAPTER  III. 

I  buckled  on  my  armor, 

And  my  sword  so  keen  and  bright ; 

I  took  my  gallant  charger, 

And  I  rode  him  to  the  fight. 

We  met  the  foeman  early. 

Beside  yon  castle  hoar. 

And  slew  them  all  by  tower  and  wall. 

And  by  the  dark  lake-shore. 

Baixad. 

About  sunrise  that  morning  John  of  the  Bridle 
took  his  way  up  the  gorge,  through  which  poor  Ellen 
had  been  borne.  He  had  returned  from  Kilmallock  on 
the  previous  evening,  after  delivering  the  despatch, 
and  joined  the  dancers  on  the  green  of  Fannystown. 
On  inquiring  for  Ellen  Roche,  he  was  told  the  inci¬ 
dent  that  had  occurred,  and  of  Ellen’s  accompany¬ 
ing  Na  Meerval  to  her  home.  Suspecting  some  unfair 
dealing  on  the  part  of  Na  Meerval,  he  proceeded  di¬ 
rectly  to  the  house  of  Maureen  Roche ;  but  she 
could  give  no  account  of  her  daughter,  except  that 
she  had  gone  early  in  the  day  to  the  dance.  The 
alarm  was  given,  and  every  place  searched,  even 
the  cave  where  John  of  the  Bridle  met  the  three 
Timothys;  but  no  trace  of  the  young  girl  could 
be  found.  John  of  the  Bridle  was  on  horseback 
most  of  that  night,  and,  after  sending  some  of  his 
friends  in  other  directions,  took  his  way  at  sun- 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


283 


rise  up  the  gorge  that  led  between  the  hills.  On 
reaching  the  highest  point  of  a  craggy  ridge,  he  di¬ 
rected  his  course  over  a  wide  and  elevated  moor¬ 
land,  strewn  irregularly  with  huge  masses  of  rock. 
Riding  for  some  time  in  a  southerly  direction, 
he  at  length  reached  where  the  barren  moorland 
merged  into  the  stunted  copsewood  of  the  upland 
forest;  and  here  he  was  met  by  a  lathy  and  light- 
footed  gorsoon  whom  he  accosted. 

“Rody,”  said  he,  “  where  is  Remy  of  the  Glen  and 
the  horsemen  ?  ” 

“  They’re  below,  in  the  ould  Castle  o’  Kilcolman, 
captin  ;  but  come  on  down  to  ’em,  for  they’re  in 
riglar  currywhibles  about  somethin’,  an’  wantin’  you 
badly.” 

When  they  had  proceeded  for  some  time  through 
the  forest,  Rody  stopped.  “There,  captin,  is  the 
ould  castle  beyant  there ;  an’  here  is  the  glin,  fwhare 
all  the  horses  are  left  for  me  to  mind.  So  come 
down  now,  captin,  an’  let  me  put  your  horse  wid 
the  rest.” 

John  of  the  Bridle  dismounted,  and,  guided  by 
Rody,  led  his  horse  to  a  deep  hollow  in  the.  forest, 
with  bushy  precipices  all  round  it ;  and  here,  feeding 
upon  heaps  of  dried  grass,  stood  between  forty  and 
fifty  horses,  accoutred,  and  ready  for  their  owners. 
Leaving  his  horse  among  them  to  the  care  of  Rody, 
John  proceeded  quickly  along  the  forest  pathway, 
until,  at  length,  he  stood  before  the  ruined  outworks 
of  Kilcolman.  Here  he  was  met  by  a  short,  dark 


284 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


man,  who  stood  as  sentinel  by  the  broken  gate,  and 
who  told  him  to  go  in  at  once,  for  those  inside  were 
impatiently  expecting  him.  On  entering  the  dilapi¬ 
dated  doorway,  before  him  opened  an  arch-roofed 
and  gloomy  apartment,  the  principal  hall  of  the 
castle,  lit  by  a  great  fire  of  blazing  wood ;  which, 
as  the  chimney  and  windows  were  all  stopped  up, 
filled  the  whole  space  inside  with  a  thick  cloud  of 
smoke.  Around  the  fire,  in  various  attitudes,  talk¬ 
ing,  laughing,  and  eating,  were  congregated  about 
twenty  men,  —  some  of  the  owners  of  the  horses.  The 
fire  blazed  and  crackled,  its  red  flame  lighting  up 
the  wild  visages  of  the  horsemen,  and  glinting  with 
j)icturesque  effect  on  the  half-polished  arms  that 
strewed  the  floor,  or  lay  against  the  craggy  walls. 
One  young  man,  turning  round,  saw  John  of  the 
Bridle,  or  the  Captain,  as  they  called  him  ;  for  it  was 
he  that  always  led  them  on  their  wild  forays. 

“  Arrah,  blur-an-ages !  here  is  the  captin  himself, 
at  the  very  time  we  wanted  him,”  exclaimed  the 
young  man.  “  I  bleeve  ’twas  the  Good  People 
themselves  that  sent  him.” 

“  ’Twas  not,  then,  Shamus,  but  the  very  worst  of 
people  that  sent  me  here.  But  why  are  ye  sitting 
thus?  and  what  account  have  ye  of  the  troops  that 
came  out  from  Doneraile  ?  ” 

“  First  an’  foremost,  captin,”  said  Remy  of  the 
Glen,  —  a  tall  young  fellow,  the  boldest  and  merriest 
looking  of  them  all,  and  who,  from  the  respect  paid 
to  his  opinions  by  his  comrades,  appeared  to  have 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


•285 


the  command  in  the  absence  of  John  of  the  Bridle, 
—  “First  an’  foremost,  we’re  waitin’  to  know  would 
you  come ;  an’  second,  we  have  a  plan  made  out 
among  ourselves  that’ll  maybe  settle  with  them 
throopers  —  for  they’re  now  cornin’  over  the  hills 
back  to  Doneraile  — better  than  if  we  met  them  on 
the  hills  ;  an’  —  aur  vonom  !  —  ’twill  give  us  what  we 
hadn’t  this  many  a  day, —  a  little  sport.  Twenty  o’ 
the  boys  are  now  lyin’  in  ambush  outside  in  the 
wood,  an’ five  or  six  more  are  over  on  the  height; 
an’  the  very  minnit  that  the  throopers  get  a  look  at 
them,  they’re  to  run  back  here,  an’  never  stir  out  o’ 
this  till  the  Black  Captain  begins  to  smoke  them 
out.  Dhar  Dhia  !  when  we  ketch  himself  an’  his 
throopers  among  these  ould  thraps  o’  walls,  but  I’ll 
soon  have  a  betther  helmet  than  this  rusty  ould  gris- 
sid  on  my  head  at  present !  ” 

John  of  the  Bridle  was  strategist  enough  to  see 
that  this  was  an  excellent  plan  for  settling  accounts 
with  the  troopers.  The  only  improvement  he  would 
suggest  was  that  he  should  go  himself,  and  head  the 
ambuscade.  He  found  the  men  outside  crouched 
among  the  thick  underwood  of  the  forest,  and  wait¬ 
ing  with  impatience  for  the  coming  of  their  enemies. 
In  the  meantime  those  who  served  for  a  decoy  sat 
upon  the  summit  of  a  steep  height,  looking  west¬ 
ward  upon  a  troop  of  about  thirty  horsemen,  return¬ 
ing  from  their  murdering  expedition.  Suddenly  one 
of  the  troopers  looked  up,  and,  beholding  the  wild¬ 
looking  figures  on  the  summit,  pointed  them  out  to 


286 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


his  leader,  the  Black  Captain ;  who,  sticking  his  long 
spurs  into  his  horse’s  flanks,  dashed  towards  them,  fol¬ 
lowed  by  his  men.  Away  rushed  the  others,  making 
a  circuit  in  order  to  avoid  the  hollow  where  the 
horses  were  concealed,  and  were  just  in  among  their 
comrades  when  the  troopers  appeared  in  front  of 
the  castle  upon  the  shore  of  the  lake. 

“Ha,  ha!”  exclaimed  one  of  them,  as  he  entered, 
“we  have  the  bloody  murtherers  caught  at  last,  an’ 
by  the  morthial  big  soord  o’  Brian  Boru,  bud  they 
have  nate  horses  !  ” 

All  inside  now  arose,  and  stood  darkly  around 
Remy  of  the  Glen,  their  arms  flashing  in  the  red 
firelight,  and  the  glow  of  revenge  and  hate  shining 
in  their  wild  countenances  as  they  listened  for  the 
onset  of  their  enemies.  Remy  now  looked  out,  and 
beheld  through  the  shattered  outworks  the  troopers 
in  a  cluster  by  the  lake,  apparently  deliberating  on 
the  best  method  of  capturing  the  fugitives  of  the 
castle.  Among  them  stood  Theige  the  Wolf,  like  an 
evil  spirit,  grinning  with  glee  at  the  prospect  of  the 
exercise  he  was  apparently  to  have  in  his  darling 
profession  of  a  skibbioch,  or  hangman.  The  Black 
Captain  now  gave  some  orders,  at  which  they  all 
dismounted ;  and  one  of  them,  a  low-sized,  lank-vis- 
aged,  but  stout  man,  who  went  by  the  euphonious 
name  of  Corporal  Ebenezer  Kick-the-Goad,  advanced 
to  the  gateway  of  the  castle. 

“  Come  forth,”  he  exclaimed,  “  ye  robbing  Amalek- 
ites,  or  ye  shall  die  the  death  of  wolves,  whom  ye 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


287 


imitate,  betaking  yourselves  to  dens  and  caverns  to 
avoid  the  path  of  the  just  and  chosen  !  ” 

The  answer  was  a  couple  of  bullets  fi'om  the  in¬ 
side,  one  of  which  stretched  him  by  the  gate,  wound¬ 
ing  him  severely  ;  the  other  breaking  the  leg  of  the 
Black  Captain’s  horse,  which  stood  on  the  shore  al¬ 
most  in  a  direct  line  behind  him. 

“  Now,  by  the  soul  of  Abraham !  ”  said  the  captain, 
“they  shall  die.  Follow  me,  children  of  Zion,  and 
we’ll  send  their  souls  from  yon  unhallowed  den  to 
get  an  eternal  taste  of  the  punishments  awaiting 
God’s  accursed.” 

All  now  advanced  towards  the  gateway,  firing  as 
they  went,  their  shot  killing  a  few  inside.  The  be¬ 
sieged,  on  their  part,  were  not  idle ;  for,  as  the  troop¬ 
ers  came  clambering  up  the  gateway,  and  through 
the  ragged  apertures  of  the  outworks,  they  were  sa¬ 
luted  by  a  volley  from  the  doorway  which  killed 
several  of  them,  and  sent  the  Black  Captain  rolling 
over  and  over  in  his  death  agony  almost  down  to 
the  shore  of  the  lake.  Finding  their  reception  a 
little  too  hot,  the  rest  retreated  behind  the  shelter 
of  the  walls,  in  order  to  get  time  for  a  little  deliber¬ 
ation  before  they  renewed  the  attack. 

“  That’s  my  shot,”  said  Remy  of  the  Glen,  when  he 
saw  the  Black  Captain  rolling  down;  “an’  his  helmet 
an’  back-aii-breast  are  mine.  Poor  Randal  Breen, 
that  broke  the  horse’s  leg  outside,  has  no  claim ;  for 
he’s  shot  himself.” 

The  command  of  the  besiegers  now  devolved 


288 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


upon  a  gigantic,  iron-visaged  man,  the  tallest  of  the 
troop,  who,  as  he  said  himself,  had  cast  away  as  an 
unhallowed  thing  his  name  of  the  flesh,  but  amply 
recompensed  himself  by  taking  the  tremendous  ap¬ 
pellation  of  Habakuk  Burn-the-Gentiles.  This 
changing  of  names  was  the  universal  custom  of  tlie 
Puritans  of  those  days.  Burn-the-Gentiles  held  the 
rank  of  sergeant,  and  was  an  experienced  and  cour¬ 
ageous  soldier.  The  ambuscade  had  not  yet  come 
out  from  their  hiding-place,  and  it  is  necessary  to 
explain  the  reason.  The  Black  Captain,  on  picket¬ 
ing  the  horses,  had  left  them  in  care  of  Cu  Allee 
and  the  Rev.  Hezekiah  Shout-the-Word-frorn-Zion ; 
who,  although  a  preacher  of  the  Word,  was  perhaps 
one  of  the  keenest-eyed  soldiers  of  the  troop.  At 
the  moment  of  the  first  attack,  the  ambuscade, 
therefore,  could  not  by  any  possibility  come  una¬ 
wares  on  their  enemies.  Various  methods  were 
now  suggested  by  the  troopers  for  dislodging  the 
besieged,  but  Burn-the-Gentiles  at  length  proposed 
one  which  was  universally  acceded  to. 

“  Comrades  in  the  chosen  path,”  he  said,  “the  cun¬ 
ning  of  the  Amoritish  slaves  hath  prevailed  for  the 
moment.  But  it  shall  avail  them  not.  Even  as 
Samson  burned  the  vineyards,  so  shall  we  burn  to 
the  death  those  children  of  sin  in  yon  accursed  house. 
Depart.  Gather  ye  fern  and  the  dried  grass  of  the 
forest,  and  place  it  even  as  a  burning  and  suffocating 
and  scorching  barrier  before  the  door  of  the 
heathen.” 


TEE  WHITETHORN  TREE, 


289 


This  order  was  obeyed  with  snch  alacrity  that 
they  soon  had  a  great  heap  of  half-withered  boughs, 
grass,  and  fern,  piled  up  beside  the  outer  wall.  Of 
this,  each  took  a  portion ;  and,  stealing  round  the 
corners  of  the  castle,  they  threw  their  bundles  from 
them  into  the  doorway,  and  in  a  short  time  had 
the  whole  space  filled  up  with  combustibles  ready 
for  the  igniting  spark.  The  heap  was  now  set  on 
fire,  and  all  thronged  around,  —  even  the  Reverend 
Hezekiah  himself  coming  up  from  the  horses  to  be  a 
witness,  —  and  stood  in  immense  satisfaction  at  the 
idea  of  the  sport  they  were  to  have  in  the  charitable 
work  of  roasting  half-a-dozen  of  their  fellow-crea¬ 
tures  ;  and  so  intent  were  they  on  the  interesting 
operation,  that  they  never  noticed  the  approach  of  a 
body  of  men  equalling  themselves  in  number,  which, 
led  by  J ohn  of  the  Bridle,  came  slowly  but  surely  to 
the  attack  behind  them.  On  came  these  vengeful 
men,  stealing  through  the  bushwood,  like  panthers 
approaching  their  prey.  Suddenly,  with  a  savage 
yell,  they  sprang  upon  the  rear  of  the  terrified 
troopers;  and  at  the  same  moment  the  burning  heath 
was  scattered,  as  by  the  blast  of  a  tempest,  from  the 
doorway,  and  out  rushed  Remy  of  the  Glen  and  his 
remaining  followers.  Shot  after  shot  rang  around 
the  ancient  castle,  shout  and  groan  and  sabre-clash 
woke  the  sullen  echoes  of  the  lake :  but,  after  some 
moments,  a  few  groans,  scarcely  louder  than  the 
murmur  of  the  waves  against  the  shore,  fell  ujDon 
the  ear;  for  all  the  troopers,  except  Burn-the-Gen- 

19 


290 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


tiles,  Shout-tlie-Wol'd-froin-Zion,  and  a  few  others 
with  equally  astounding  appellations,  met  their  death 
in  that  wild  onset.  The  horse  of  John  of  the  Bridle, 
hearing  the  shots,  broke  loose  from  the  guardianship 
of  Body,  and  darted  down  to  the  scene  of  conflict. 
John  sprang  upon  his  back,  and  with  a  few  others, 
who  had  each  appropriated  a  trooper’s  horse,  gal¬ 
loped  away  in  pursuit  of  the  fugitives,  while  the  re¬ 
mainder  of  his  men  rushed  after  the  chargers  of  the 
other  dead  troopers,  which  were  careering  in  all  direc¬ 
tions  around  Lough  Ullair.  On  riding  somewhat 
more  than  a  mile  in  pursuit  of  Burn-th e-Gentiles,  who 
had  turned  in  a  difierent  direction  from  his  comrades, 
John  of  the  Bridle  reined  in  his  horse;  for  the  re¬ 
doubtable  sergeant  fled  with  such  reckless  rapidity 
through  the  forest  that  it  was  quite  useless  to  pursue 
him  any  farther. 

In  the  mean  time,  John’s  men  had  secured  the 
horses,  and  brought  them  in ;  and  were  now  crowded 
in  front  of  the  castle,  dividing  the  spoils  of  their 
fallen  enemies.  Some  of  their  own  comrades  had 
also  fallen,  their  bodies  lying  side  by  side  with  those 
of  the  troopers.  In  the  absence  of  their  captain, 
Remy  was  necessarily  the  umpire  ;  and  it  was  amus¬ 
ing  to  see  with  what  tact  and  rapidity  he  managed 
the  affair.  Putting  aside  the  horses  to  be  disposed 
of  according  to  the  judgment  of  John  of  the  Bridle, 
he  first  cast  away  his  own  old  rusty  helmet,  and  ar¬ 
rayed  himself  in  the  bright  morion  and  corselet  of 
the  Black  Captain  ;  then  to  one  of  his  men  he  gave 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


291 


a  back-and-breast,  to  another  a  sword  and  belt,  and 
to  some  one  else  a  helmet,  and  so  on  until  the  whole 
spoil  was  disposed  of  in  a  satisfactory  manner. 

Whilst  engaged  in  admiring  themselves  in  their 
new  habiliments,  they  heard  a  shriek  behind  them; 
and,  on  turning  round,  beheld  Alice  O’Brien  running 
towards  them,  pursued  by  a  tall,  dark  woman  who 
seemed  blind  with  fury,  for  she  still  came  on  quite 
unheeding  the  threatening  gestures  of  Remy  and 
his  commdes.  Remy  ran  towards  Alice,  who  fell 
fainting  into  his  arms;  and  a  few  othei’s  laid  hold  on 
her  pursuer,  who  struggled  and  kicked  and  bit  in 
their  grasp  with  all  the  energy  of  a  demon.  Alice 
and  the  woman  were  still  in  the  apartment  described 
in  the  beginning  of  the  first  chapter,  when  the  castle 
was  suddenly  occupied  by  Remy  of  the  Glen  and 
his  companions.  Not  knowing  who  were  beneath 
them,  they  had  remained  hidden  during  the  morn¬ 
ing.  Then  came  the  noise  of  the  fighting,  the  silence, 
and  the  distribution  of  the  spoils :  and  Alice,  hearing 
her  cousin  Remy’s  voice,  could  bear  the  suspense 
no  longer;  so,  darting  suddenly  out  through  a  ruined 
window,  she  clambered  down  the  old  broken  wall, 
pureued  by  the  woman,  and  was  thus  happily  restored 
to  her  friends.  The  old  woman  now  seemed  calmed 
a  little  in  her  fury ;  but,  iii  all  the  varieties  of  abuse 
that  the  human  tongue  is  capable  of,  she  commenced 
to  demonstrate  to  her  captors  that  she  was  not  at  all 
afraid  of  them  or  any  thing  they  could  do. 

“Take  the  ould  bird  o’  Satin  into  the*  castle,  an’ 


292 


TEE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


roast  lier,  like  a  throut,  upon  the  fire,”  said  one  of 
the  horsemen. 

“  Tie  her  to  one  o’  the  horse’s  tails,  the  ould  ban¬ 
shee,  and  let  him  whip,  like  a  thimble-man,  through 
the  forest  wid  her,”  exclaimed  another. 

“No,”  said  Remy,  “  let  her  go  her  own  ways.  W  e 
have  got  plenty  of  her  already.”  And,  with  that,  she 
was  liberated ;  and,  leaving  Alice  and  the  horseman, 
with  many  a  curse  upon  her  tongue,  she  walked  ofi* 
round  the  lake,  and  took  her  way  in  the .  direction 
of  Doneraile. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

But  oh  !  one  morn  I  clomb  a  hill, 

To  sigh  alone,  to  weep  my  fill. 

And  there  Heaven’s  mercy  sent  to  me 
My  treasure  rare,  Ben  —  Erinni  ! 

Irish  Ballad. 

Reining  up  from  the  pursuit  of  Burn-the-Gen- 
tiles,  John  of  the  Bridle  dismounted  in  a  deep  hol¬ 
low  of  the  forest,  in  order  to  fasten  a  strap  of  his 
armor  which  had  become  loosened  in  the  fray. 
On  sheathing  his  sword,  and  while  in  the  act  of 
buckling  the  strap,  he  was  seized  around  the  body 
and  arms  as  if  in  the  grasp  of  a  giant,  and  dashed 
roughly  on  his  back  to  the  ground.  And  it  was  truly 
a  giant ;  for,  on  looking  up,  the  young  horseman  be- 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


293 


held  Theige  of  the  Red  Cloak  standing  over  him, 
with  an  expression  of  triumphant  hate  in  his  massive 
features,  and  his  skean  in  his  hand,  ready  to  prevent 
his  victim  from  making  any  movement  of  escape. 
John  instinctively  moved  his  hand  to  where  his 
sword  ought  to  have  been  ;  but  the  belt  had  been  un¬ 
buckled  when  he  was  grasped  first,  and  sword  and 
dagger  thrown  to  a  distance  from  where  he  lay.  Just 
at  this  moment,  the  attention  of  both  was  attracted 
to  another  object.  It  was  Cu  Alice,  who  had  made 
his  escape  from  the  battle,  and  who  now,  darting 
from  the  thicket,  was  instantly  clinging,  like  a  cata¬ 
mount,  to  the  saddle  of  John’s  charger.  The  horse, 
not  at  all  relishing  this  companionship,  commenced 
rearing  and  dashing  wildly  up  and  down  the  hollow, 
till  at  length,  by  means  of  an  agile  spring  to  one 
side  and  a  demivolt,  he  landed  his  rider  in  the  bot¬ 
tom  of  a  rough,  gravelly  drain.  Up  started  Cu  Allee 
with  a  shrill  yell  of  vengeance,  and  all  bleeding 
from  the  fall;  and,  with  his  long  dagger  gleaming  in 
his  hand,  rushed  after  the  horse,  which,  clearing  the 
thicket  at  the  verge  of  the  hollow,  gained  the  more 
open  part  of  the  forest,  and  was  soon  safe  from  the 
resentment  of  his  pursuer.  Foiling  Dearg  turned 
again  to  his  prostrate  captive. 

“Ha,  ha  !”  he  almost  yelled,  with  a  savage  laugh 
of  triumph,  “hur  is  caught  at  last.  Dhar  YuiThia! 
but  it  was  like  a  riffinly  little  dog  follyin’  on  the 
thrack  of  a  wild  wolf.  An’  a  dog’s  death  Shane  na 
Shrad  must  die  for  that  soi'C  blow  in  the  cave,  an’ 


294 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


for  crossing  Thiege  Foiling  Dearg  in  his  love.”  And, 
so  saying,  he  made  John  of  the  Bridle  arise  and 
march  olF  in  the  direction  of  the  Fairy  Whitethorn  ; 
Foiling  Dearg  keeping  close  behind,  with  a  short 
gun  ready  pointed  in  his  hand ;  and  Cu  Allee  closer 
still,  his  dagger  ready  to  be  plunged  into  the  back 
of  their  captive,  should  he  make  any  hostile  move¬ 
ment. 

During  the  early  part  of  that  day,  a  burst  of  gay 
sunshine  had  flooded  hill  and  valley;  but,  as  the 
morning  advanced,  the  sky  was  overstrewn  by  layers 
of  dull,  copper-colored  clouds,  which  came  moving 
up  from  the  eastern  horizon  with  the  slowness  and 
regularity  of  a  well-disciplined  army  proceeding  to 
battle.  Not  a  breeze  stirred  the  leaves  on  the 
thickets ;  and  a  dead  and  oppressive  silence  reigned 
around,  which  was  at  length  broken  by  a  low,  rum¬ 
bling  sound  behind  the  distant  mountains.  A  sud¬ 
den  flash  now  illuminated  the  far-off  horizon.  It 
was  succeeded  by  others,  which,  as  they  came,  trav¬ 
ersed  a  wider  arch  of  the  heavens,  and  by  thunder, 
each  successive  peal  waxing  louder  and  more  hollow, 
till  the  very  earth  seemed  bursting  behind  the  hills. 
At  length,  and  just  as  Timothy  of  the  Red  Cloak 
and  his  ill-favored  companion,  with  their  captive, 
were  descending  the  side  of  a  bare  mountain,  a 
brio-ht  ball  of  electric  fire  burst  from  the  bosom  of 

O 

a  black  mass  of  cloud  on  the  summit,  and,  darting  in  a 
zigzag  course  along  the  sky,  burst,  overspreading  the 
whole  wide  arch  with  a  flood  of  blindinsr  and  intense 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


295 


brilliancy.  Then  came  a  dead  silence,  only  broken 
by  the  patter  of  a  few  heavy  rain-drops,  which  was 
succeeded  by  an  explosion  so  loud  and  hollow  that 
the  very  rocks  seemed  tottering  from  their  firm 
foundations.  A  black  column  of  falling  rain,  like  a 
waterspout,  now  advanced  up  the  eastern  heights, 
and  spread  and  spread  till  the  dark  moorland  and 
steep  valley  were  one  universal  hiss  and  clatter  of 
falling  drops. 

Unstayed  for  a  moment  by  the  gloom  and  loud 
deluging  of  the  storm,  John  of  the  Bridle  and  his 
captors  proceeded  over  the  bogs  till  they  reached 
the  edge  of  the  deej)  glen  through  which  the  Ounanar, 
now  swelled  into  a  great  torrent,  rushed  downward 
on  the  rocks,  whirling  along  its  jagged  banks  with  a 
roar  that  almost  drowned  the  frequent  reverberations 
of  the  thunder  overhead.  Before  them  the  stream 
was  too  deep  and  violent  to  attempt  a  passage 
across;  so  they  proceeded  upwards  some  distance 
to  the  junction  of  its  two  branches,  where  its  bed 
was  broader,  and  consequently  more*  shallow.  Here 
they  changed  their  order  of  march,  and  began  to 
wade  the  torrent.  Foiling  Dearg  in  front  of  the 
captive,  and  Cu  Allee  close  behind,  with  his  long 
dagger  still  glittering  in  his  hand.  Close  above 
them  the  two  streams  rushed  into  one,  forming  a 
black  and  boiling  pool,  whose  waters,  as  if  eager 
for  more  noisy  strife,  issuing  out,  foamed  and  hissed 
and  roared  hoarsely  around  the  many  fi'agments  of 
rock  that  obstructed  their  way  to  the  narrow  and 


296 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


torn  channel  some  distance  below.  The  three  were 
now  past  the  middle  of  the  torrent.  A  bright  blaze 
of  lightning  for  an  instant  illuminated  the  gloomy 
valley,  when,  with  almost  the  suddenness  of  the 
electric  flash,  John  of  the  Bridle  turned  round, 
snatched  his  sword-belt  from  the  shoulders  of  Cu 
Allee,  and  dashed  headlong  downward  into  the 
whirling  current.  That  wild  current,  reinforced  by 
some  roaring  tributary,  now  rose  with  fearful  sud¬ 
denness  higher  and  higher,  till  it  became  too  power¬ 
ful  for  mortal  strength  to  contend  against ;  so  the 
disappointed  pair,  after  a  few  unsuccessful  plunges, 
were  fain  to  scramble  to  the  bank  before  them,  and 
leave  John  of  the  Bridle  to  the  flood,  which  they 
supposed  would  dash  him  to  pieces  against  the  rocks 
beneath  them  in  the  glen.  But  the  sudden  swell 
saved  him  ;  for,  just  as  he  was  about  to  be  shot  down¬ 
ward  through  the  narrow  channel,  he  was  raised  high 
enough  to  catch  at  the  naked  roots  of  a  giant  ash- 
tree  which  grew  upon  the  edge  of  the  bank.  With 
a  mighty  effort  he  heaved  himself  upward,  and 
clutched  one  of  these;  sci*ambled  higher  still,  and 
stood  all  blinded  by  the  yellow  foam  upon  the  bank 
where  they  first  looked  for  a  ford  across  the  torrent. 
At  length  he  turned  round,  and  shook  his  sword  at 
the  two  as  they  stood  beneath  the  cliffs  at  the  oppo¬ 
site  side.  For  answer  to  his  defiance,  a  bullet  from 
the  musketoon  of  Foiling  Dearg  whistled  across 
the  glen,  and  struck  with  a  shrill  clang  upon  his 
breastplate,  but,  unable  to  penetrate  the  good  steel. 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


297 


glanced  aside,  striking  off  the  head  of  a  sapling  that 
grew  hard  by.  Little  relishing  another  visitor  like 
this,  John  of  the  Bridle  struck  upwards  through 
the  wood ;  and,  on  gaining  the  open  heath,  took  his 
way  in  the  direction  of  the  spot  where  he  was  made 
prisoner  that  morning. 

After  crossing  a  high,  plashy  bog,  he  began  to 
ascend  a  stone-strewn  hill,  on  whose  summit  rose  a 
cairn,  —  probably  an  ancient  landmark,  or  some 
monumental  heap,  erected  long  ago  over  some  chief 
who  had  fallen  in  battle  among  the  hills.  The  rain 
now  began  to  abate,  and,  as  he  stood  beside  the 
cairn,  had  ceased  altogether.  He  sat  himself  upon 
a  fragment  of  stone,  and  looked  around.  Beneath 
him,  towering  over  the  green  forest,  lay  Kilcolman 
Castle.  Between  him  and  the  skirts  of  the  forest 
spread  a  slanting  and  rushy  moorland,  across  which 
a  body  of  horsemen  were  now  advancing,  whom, 
notwithstanding  the  distance,  he  instantly  knew  to 
be  his  own  comrades.  As  they  drew  nearer,  he 
could  distinguish  that  one  horse  was  without  a  rider, 
and  that  a  female,  seated  behind  a  horseman,  came 
on  in  the  front  of  the  cavalcade.  Without  waiting 
to  see  more,  he  now  set  off  across  the  moor,  as 
quickly  as  he  could,  towards  a  deep  glen,  which  he 
knew  was  to  be  crossed  by  his  companions.  He  and 
they  coming  to  opposite  sides  of  the  glen  at  the 
same  time,  they  soon  observed  him,  and  gave  a  wild 
and  glad  shout  of  recognition  ;  on  which,  the  led 
horse,  breaking  away  from  the  rider  that  held  him, 


298 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


dashed  down  across  the  glen,  and,  with  many  a  glad¬ 
some  neigh,  came  bounding  towards  the  spot  where 
John  of  the  Bridle  stood.  It  was  his  own  steed. 
After  escaping  from  Cu  Alice,  he  was  caught  by 
Body,  in  the  forest,  and  brought  in  with  the  other 
horses.  But  a  far  more  welcome  surprise  now 
awaited  John.  The  party  had  crossed  the  glen,  and 
were  close  upon  liim,  when  the  female  sprang  lightly 
from  behind  Remy  of  the  Glen,  and  the  next  mo¬ 
ment  John  of  the  Bridle  was  clasping  fondly  to  his 
breast  his  long-lost  and  long-sought  love,  Alice 
O’Brien.  As  the  wild  horsemen  circled  round,  and 
surveyed  the  meeting  of  the  lovers,  their  rugged 
countenances  lit  up  with  pleasure;  and  each  began 
to  tell,  with  many  rough  oaths  and  contradictions, 
how  and  where  they  had  rescued  Alice. 

“  Arrah,  by  the  holy  staff  o’  the  saint !  ”  exclaimed 
Remy  of  the  Glen,  “  but  if  we’re  not  real  fortunate 
men !  There  I  was  this  mornin’,  with  a  bare  breast, 
an’  an  ould  rusty  pot  of  a  helmet ;  an’  here  I  am 
now  with  the  black  ould  Parliaminthef’s  back-an’- 
breast,  an’  a  helmet  as  briglit  as  the  flamin’  diamond 
o’  Lough  Lein.  But  what  is  it  all  to  the  bringin’ 
back  o’  my  sweet  cousin  Alice  into  the  arms  of  our 
captin,  her  own  true  an’  dear  lover,  as  she  says  her¬ 
self?  I’ll  bet  my  new  helmet  against  Jack  Burke’s 
ould  spurs  that  I’ll  grind  the  flags  of  any  floor  to 
smithereens,  dancin’  at  their  weddin’ !  ”  And,  with 
that,  he  turned  his  spurs  inward,  and,  in  the  excess 
of  his  delight,  commenced  driving  his  horse  in  an 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


299 


infinite  number  of  capers  and  gambadoes  around  the 
splashing  bog. 

“Little  you  knew,  John,”  said  Alice,  after  they 
had  mutually  told  the  sorrow  each  felt  during  the 
time  they  were  separated,  “  little  you  knew,  when 
speaking  to  Theige  of  the  Red  Cloak  about  restor¬ 
ing  me,  that  it  was  he  and  his  men  bore  me  away 
into  the  hills.  They  stole  upon  me  that  evening  at 
the  milking  bawn  in  Glenisheen,  and  took  me  first 
to  his  hut  beside  the  fairy  whitethorn.  The  black 
traitor !  did  he  think  that  I  could  give  my  heart  to 
such  as  he,  —  a  betrayer  among  his  own  companions, 
and  to  his  native  country?  When  he  found  it  all  in 
vain,  he  took  me  away  to  Kilcolman,  and  left  me 
with  his  sister,  to  sell  me  to  the  Black  Captain,  —  he 
who,  they  tell  me,  lies  beyond  there  by  the  wall  of 
the  castle.  But  I  am  rescued  ;  and  now,  my  dear¬ 
est  John,  we  meet,  I  hope,  to  part  no  more.” 

Leaving  John  and  Alice  to  their  happy  thoughts, 
it  is  time  to  return  to  Foiling  Dearg  and  his  sweet¬ 
faced  companion.  They  made  no  attempt  to  pur¬ 
sue  their  captive,  for  the  simple  reason  that  it  was 
impossible  for  them  to  cross  the  flood  ;  but,  turning 
upwards  along  the  edge  of  the  glen,  they  soon 
reached  their  hut,  opposite  the  whitethorn.  In  its 
outer  apartment  Theige  na  Meerval  was  sitting  be¬ 
fore  them;  and,  to  judge  by  the  expression  of  his 
countenance,  he  seemed  in  no  very  elysian  humor. 
They  stood  silent  for  some  time,  the  face  of  each 
indicating  in  its  own  peculiar  manner  the  dark  pas- 


300 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


sions  aroused  by  disappointment.  Na  Meerval  was 
the  first  to  brealj:  it :  — 

“  Cu  Allee’s  work  is  over,  is  it  ?  An’  why  didn’t 
you  bring  Shane  na  Shrad  here,  as  you  promised, 
an’  let  him  take  his  last  swing  from  the  branch  of 
the  whitethorn  outside?  Or  maybe  he  escaped 
ye.  Ha !  you  said  this  mornin’  that  your  revinge 
was  so  strong  that  you  could  scent  Shane  na  Shrad’s 
footsteps  thro’  coom  an’  forest,  wherever  he  went.” 

“  My  curse  upon  this  roarin’  flood  undher  us  !  ” 
exclaimed  Foiling  Dearg,  “  when  we  were  crossin’, 
an’  so  far  that  we  couldn’t  get  back  here  agin,  it,  I 
may  say,  took  him  in  its  arms,  an’  tore  him  from  be¬ 
tween  us,  an’  threw  him  safe  upon  the  bank  we  left. 
An’  he’s  gone.  My  black  an’  heavy  an’  burnin’ 
curses  upon  him,  night,  noon,  and  mornin’ !  ” 

“  Yes  :  Cu  Allee’s  work !  ”  said  that  worthy :  “  why 
didn’t  you  do  the  work  you  got  for  yourself?  There 
is  a  difierence  between  bringin’  a  strong  man  across 
a  floody  river,  and  coming  round  the  colleen  you 
have  inside  there.  I  thought  ye’d  be  in  love  with 
each  other  in  a  min  nit.  Why  didn’t  you  do  that 
work  with  your  sleight-o’-hand  ?  ” 

“  I’ll  do  it  yet,”  answered  the  little  man,  in  all  the 
energy  of  vindictive' passion  ;  “an’  if  I  can’t,”  con¬ 
tinued  he,  laying  his  hand  upon  his  dagger,  “there’s 
some  sleight-o’-hand  in  this,  an’  I’ll  make  it  help 
me,  an’  be  my  matchmaker.” 

“If  I’d  depended  upon  my  skean,  an’  not  upon 
Cu  Allee’s  gad,”  said  Foiling  Dearg,  “  my  mortal 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


301 


inimy  wouldn’t  be  walkin’  free  acrass  the  mountains 
this  blessed  hour.  But  maybe  he  isn’t  gone  far 
yet.  The  flood  will  soon  begin  to  go  down ;  give 
us  somethin’  to  ate,  an’  we’ll  see  what  revinge  can 
do  to  overtake  him.” 

After  partaking  of  some  black,  coarse  bread,  and 
making  a  few  other  preparations,  they  crossed  the 
flood  once  more,  and  set  out  again  in  pursuit  of 
John  of  the  Bridle. 

When  something  more  than  an  hour  had  passed, 
Na  Meerval  rolled  away  the  large  stone  with  which 
the  door  of  the  inner  apartment  was  fastened,  and 
stood  once  more  in  the  presence  of  Ellen  Roche. 

“  Come  !  ”  said  he  sternly,  “  this  is  my  third  an’ 
last  time  for  askin’  you.  Say  you’ll  have  me,  love 
or  no  love,  an’  your  troubles  are  over.” 

Ellen  had  tried  every  kind  of  entreaty  before.  She 
now  determined  to  brave  it  out,  and  meet  her  fate, 
if  it  came  to  the  worst,  as  fearlessly  as  she  could. 

“  I  said  that  but  once  in  my  life,  an’  you  know  to 
whom :  can  I  say  it  now  to  one  of  the  murderers 
of  my  betrothed*  Moran  ?  ” 

“  Your  betrothed !  He’s  betrothed  to  the  worms 
by  this,  an’  what^s  the  use  o’  thinkin’  about  him  any 
longer?  Think  o’ the  long  life  that’s  before  you, 
an’  that  you  must  spend  it  in  my  company,  whether 
you  like  it  or  not.  Think  o’  the  fair  journeys  an’ 
pleasant  days  an’  fine  dresses  you’ll  have  when  my 
wife,  an’  forget  your  betrothed  for  a  truer  man.  I 
ask  again.  Say  but  that  you’ll  have  me,  an’  we’ll 


302 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


leave  the  company  of  Foiling  Dearg  an’  Cu  Alice, 
an’  fly  to  a  more  peaceful  land,  where  we  can  live 
together  happy.” 

“  I  think,”  rejoined  Ellen,  “  of  the  life  that  was 
before  me,  and  that  you  have  blasted  for  ever.  I 
think  of  him  who  lies  in  some  bloody  nook,  with 
none  to  pray  for  him,  and  none  to  cover  him  from 
the  ravens  an’  the  wild  wolves  of  the  bills.  I  think 
of  all  this ;  and,  if  I  live,  each  day  your  life  will  be 
near  the  brink,  while  I  am  near  you.  Keep  me, 
then,  if  you  dare ;  an’  see  how  I’ll  remember  the 
long  life  before  me  !  ” 

The  Man  of  Wonders  saw  that  any  further  pic¬ 
turing  of  a  pleasant  life  in  his  company  to  Ellen 
was  useless.  His  demeanor  now  changed  with  a 
startling  suddenness.  As  a  connected  set  of  ma¬ 
chinery  with  its  complicated  wheels,  when  one  im¬ 
portant  spring  is  put  out  of  order,  whirls  round,  and 
runs  into  irretrievable  confusion  and  destruction,  so, 
when  one  passion  is  set  completely  loose,  a  host  of 
others  is  aroused  to  help  its  madness.  And  it  was 
so  with  Ka  Meerval.  His  vindictive  eyes,  and 
every  lineament  of  his  face,  seemed  lighted  up  and 
blazing  with  the  anger  of  disappointed  love,  if 
his  could  be  called  love;  and  the  revenge  that 
knows  no  mercy  was  but  too  truly  shown  in  the 
iron  grasp  with  which  he  clutched  his  dagger,  as  he 
drew  it  to  strike  at  the  defenceless  bosom  of  poor 
Ellen  Roche.  But,  the  moment  he  raised  his  dag¬ 
ger,  he  was  struck  from  behind  himself,  on  the  head, 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


303 


and  with  a  force  that  stretched  him  swooninsc  on 
the  floor. 

Accustomed  as  Na  Meerval  was  to  produce  won¬ 
ders  the  most  amazing,  he  was  not  at  all  prepared 
for  the  miraculous  change  of  circumstances  that 
presented  itself  to  his  view  on  his  recovery.  The 
flrst  thing  apparent  to  his  awakening  senses  was  him¬ 
self,  Theige  of  the  Red  Cloak,  and  Theige  the  Wolf, 
bound  hand  and  foot,  and  sitting  side  by  side,  with 
osier  gads,  or  withes,  round  their  necks,  under  the 
three  ominous  branches  of  tlie  fairy  whitethorn. 
Immediately  before  them  stood  a  short,  dark -browed 
man,  who  seemed  calculating  the  height  of  those 
three  branches  from  the  ground,  and  apparently 
having  in  his  mind’s  eye  a  lively  picture  of  three 
men  dangling  in  the  intervening  space.  Around 
the  tree,  in  various  attitudes  beside  their  horses, 
were  the  men  of  John  of  the  Bridle,  who  himself, 
with  his  lieutenant,  Remy  of  the  Glen,  stood  a  small 
distance  outside  the  group,  talking  to  Alice  O’Brien 
and  Ellen  Roche.  There  was  a  horrible  light  in  the 
eyes  of  both  liis  comrades,  wliich  told  Na  Meerval 
too  plainly  what  was  to  be  their  fate  and  his  own. 

“  Where,”  exclaimed  he,  not  yet  able  to  collect 
his  thoughts,  —  “where  is  my  skean  gone  to,  that  I 
had  this  minnit  so  firm  in  mylianS?  Ha!  did  I 
stab  myself,  that  this  blood  is  flowin’  down  my 
back?” 

“  Go  an’  ask  Remy  o’  the  Glen,”  answered  Foiling 
Dearg ;  “  that’s  the  man  that  put  the  blood  flowin’ 


304 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


down  your  back,  when  you  should  be  protectin’ 
yourself,  instead  o’  raisin’  your  dagger  to  the  breast 
of  a  wake  girl.” 

“Ha!”  said  Na  Meerval,  now  fully  awakened, 
“  we’re  caught  in  our  own  thrap  at  last.  My  curge 
upon  the  two  that  had  strong  revinge  in  their  hearts, 
an’  their  legs  upon  the  free  hills,  an’  couldn’t  escape 
from  their  worst  inimies  I  ” 

“  Were  they  free  hills,”  exclaimed  Cu*  Alice,  with 
a  wild  volubility  in  his  native  tongue,  “when  they 
waited  for  us  in  the  thickets,  as  the  wild-cat  waits 
for  its  prey ;  and  when  they  sprang  upon  us,  and 
bound  us  hand  and  foot,  before  we  could  find  our 
dagger-hilts  to  defend  ourselves  ?  And  are  they 
free  hills  here,  when  we  have  the  keen,  torturing, 
and  destroying  gads  about  our  necks,  that  will  send 
us  with  strange,  piercing  pain,  and  mortal  fear  and 
anguish,  into  the  other  world  ?  ” 

“  Stop,”  answered  Foiling  Dearg,  with  a  sullen 
and  ferocious  look,  “  stop  your  pains  and  tormints : 
what  is  the  torthure  o’  death  to  the  tormints  I  feel 
at  bein’  bound  this  way,  an’  seein’  him  beyant  there, 
talkin’  to  Alice  O’Brien?  Shane  na  Shrad,”  he 
continued,  raising  his  voice,  “  I  have  but  small  time 
to  live ;  but,  if  I  had  a  thousant  years,  every  day  of 
id  would  be  spent  plannin’  revinge,  till  I  had  sarved 
you  as  I  sarved  your  lovin’  frind,  Moran  O’Brien. 
My  etarnal  curse  upon  the  fate  —  an’  may  the  tor¬ 
rent  dhi'y  for  ever  in  its  bed  —  that  tore  you  from 
my  grasp !  ” 


THE  WHITETHORN  TREE. 


305 


John  of  the  Bridle  made  no  reply;  but,  after  say¬ 
ing  a  few  words  to  the  dark-faced  man  who  was 
calculating  the  height  of  the  branches,  proceeded 
with  Remy  of  the  Glen  and  the  two  young  maid¬ 
ens  up  the  valley,  and  left  the  three  Timothys  to 
their  doom. 

A  few  days  after  the  death  of  the  three  Timothys, 
there  was  another  merry  dance  on  the  green  of 
Fannysto^n.  But  it  was  more  of  a  novelty  this 
time,  for  there  was  a  bride  and  bridegroom  to  lead 
the  measure;  John  of  the  Bridle  —  or  Captain 
John,  as  he  was  at  last  entitled  to  be  called  — 
and  Alice  O’Brien  having  been  joined  heart  and 
hand  the  same  morning  by  the  young  priest  who 
attended  the  cavalry  force  then  occupying  Castle 
na  Doon. 

Ellen  Roche’s  sorrow  was  deep  and  true  for  her 
dead  lover.  But,  as  months  wore  on,  time  began 
to  soften  her  grief ;  and  she  eventually  became  the 
bride  of  Remy  of  the  Glen,  John’s  lieutenant,  whose 
timely  blow  rescued  her  from  the  dagger  of  the  Man 
of  Wonders. 

Years  upon  years  had  passed  away,  until  the  gray 
fortifications  of  Kilcolman  were  level  with  the  grass, 
and  even  the  forests  themselves  were  now  dead  upon 
the  hills  ;  but  the  ancient  tree  lived  on  in  its  soli¬ 
tude  of  Glenanar,  regarded  with  a  strange  rever¬ 
ence  by  the  peasantry,  and  still  called  by  them  “  the 
Whitethorn  of  the  three  Timothys.” 

20 


ROSALEEN;  OR,  THE  WHITE  LADY 
OF  BARNA. 


A  STRANGE  case!”  said  the  doctor,  as  he 
came  upon  a  certain  page  of  his  manuscript. 
“What  is  it?”  I  inquired. 

“‘Captain  John  Fitzgerald  and  Rosaleen  his  wife, 
aged  eighty-four  and  eighty-two  respectively,’  ”  pur¬ 
sued  the  doctor,  heedless  of  my  question,  and  read¬ 
ing  from  the  closely-written  page.  ‘“June  80, 
1858,’”  continued  he  aloud  once  more,  after  a  few 
moments’  silent  perusal,  “  ‘  ten  o’clock,  p.m.  ;  respira¬ 
tion  weak,  pulse  forty-five  and  forty  respectively;’” 
and  then  followed  a  long  and  minute  catalogue  of 
appearances  and  symptoms,  on  coming  to  the  end  of 
which,  the  doctor,  who  was  in  one  of  his  fits  of. ab¬ 
straction,  sat  up  straight  before  his  desk,  and  gazed 
vacantly  into  my  face  as  I  sat  opposite.  “Eleven 
o’clock,  P.M.,”  he  resumed  at  length,  half  remem¬ 
bering  my  question,  “cheerfully  and  without  pain 
they  both  died,  —  died  on  the  same  instant.” 

“  Who  were  they,  Doctor  ?  ”  inquired  I  again. 
306 


THE  WHITE  LADY  OF  BAIiNA. 


307 


“  They  must  have  been  a  strange  pair,  when  they 
fasten  on  your  memory  so  firmly.” 

“  They  were  my  best  friends,”  answered  the  doc¬ 
tor,  now  fully  awake,  “  and  had  their  troubles  like 
other  mortals,  —  or  rather,  I  should  say,  unlike  other 
people,  as  you  will  see  by  reading  that.”  And  he 
handed  me  over  his  manuscript,  in  the  perusal  of 
which  I  was  soon  eagerly  engaged,  leaving  him  to 
pore  with  critical  eye  over  some  recent  numbers  of 
“  The  Lancet.” 

The  doctor’s  manuscript  was  beautifully  and 
closely  written ;  and,  if  printed,  and  denuded  of  the 
quaint  technical  phrases  with  which  it  was  so  fre¬ 
quently  interspersed,  would  make  a  handsome  nov¬ 
elette.  An  abridgment  of  the  tale,  however,  will 
better  suit  our  purposes  at  the  present :  — 

Towards  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century,  there 
dwelt  at  the  foot  of  a  certain  high  mountain, 
in  the  soutli  of  Ireland,  a  gentleman  named 
Weston,  whose  wife  had  died  a  few  years  after  their 
marriage,  leaving  behind  her  to  deplore  her  loss  a 
son  and  a  daughter.  The  demesne  adjoining  that 
of  Weston  wood  belonged  to  an  old  gentleman  who 
had  served  for  a  long  time  as  an  officer  in  the  French 
army,  and  whose  name  was  Fitzgerald.  His  only 
son  John  was  abouV'the  same  age  as  that  of  young 
Weston.  The  two  old  gentlemen  lived  on  terms  of 
very  close  intimacy  with  one  another,  and  the 
youngsters  were  consequently  very  often  compan¬ 
ions  in  their  sports.  Young  Weston  was,  while  yet 


308 


llOSALEEN ;  OR, 


a  boy,  of  a  dark  and  violent  disposition,  subject  to 
frequent  fits  of  morose  moodiness  or  passion,  during 
wlrlch  be  was  often  known  to  vent  his  anger  with 
strange  vindictiveness  on  his  father’s  domestics,  and 
in  fact  on  any  one  who  interfered  with  him  even  in 
the  slightest  degree.  His  sister,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  a  bi’ight,  handsome  little  creatui’e,  full  of  joyous 
spirits,  and  beloved  by  the  whole  neighborhood.  In 
the  frequent  rambles  of  these  three  young  people 
together,  John  Fitzgerald,  who  was  a  bold  and 
light-hearted  boy,  was,  during  the  gloomy  fits  of  her 
brother,  thrown  into  the  exclusive  company  of  little 
Rosaleen  Weston,  helping  her  over  thicket  and 
brook,  gathering  wild  berries  and  nuts  for  her  in 
the  autumn,  and  bringing  her  many  a  blooming 
nosegay  of  flowers  in  the  summer,  from  the  leafy 
dells  and  fairy  hollows  and  romantic  crags  that  lay 
around  their  homes. 

It  was  the  old  story.  As  years  rolled  on,  their 
childish  fondness  ripened  into  love,  and  they  were 
as  happy  for  a  time  as  human  hearts  could  be.  The 
old  gentlemen  met  frequentl}^,  and  talked  jovially 
over  their  wine  of  the  prospects  of  their  children, 
and  even  of  the  day  when  John  Fitzgerald  and  the 
fair  Rosaleen  were  to  be  united  heart  and  hand  in 
marriage.  They  were  happy,  that  young  pair ;  but 
they  little  knew  that  in  a  certain  dark  heart  there 
was  a  plot  fast  maturing  to  put  a  period  to  their  joy, 
and  blight  their  future  lives.  Them  enemy,  strange 
to  say!  .>was  young  Weston.  Since  his  early  boy- 


THE  WHITE  LADY  OF  BAUNA. 


309 


hood,  from  some  unknown  cause,  he  had  hated  young 
Fitzgerald ;  but,  with  the  consummate  tact  peculiar 
to  a  vindictive  and  treacherous  mind,  he  continued 
to  conceal  his  hatred  beneath  the  mask  of  a  friendly 
countenance.  This  was  the  more  dangerous,  as 
young  Fitzgerald  was  of  an  open  and  impetuous 
temper,  simple  and  confiding,  and  never  restrained 
himself  in  telling  to '  the  brother  of  his  affianced 
bride  every  secret  of  his  heart,  —  everything  that 
arose  to  his  mind  at  the  impulse  of  the  moment. 

Young  Weston  secretly  and  skilfully  continued  to 
work  at  his  dark  plans  as  time  wore  on,  and  unfortu¬ 
nately  the  political  disturbances  of  the  time  aided  him 
surely  in  his  treacherous  intents.  In  an  unguaixled 
hour,  John  Fitzgerald  disclosed  to  him  his  connec¬ 
tion  with  a  band  of  United  Irishmen  that  were  at 
the  time  maturing  their  plans  for  raising  the  South 
on  the  breaking  out  of  the  war.  This  band  of 
United  Men  was  at  the  time  under  the  command  of 
several  young  gentlemen  who  held  a  high  place  in 
society,  and  among  >vhom  John  Fitzgerald  was 
held  in  high  esteem,  on  account  of  his  daring  courage 
and  the  knowledge  of  military  tactics  ho  displayed 
at  their  secret  meetings.  The  disclosure  of  his 
fatal  secret  to  young  Weston  filled  that  worthy  with 
an  infamous  delight,  knowing  as  he  did  that  his 
base  plot  was  coming  speedily  to  its  consummation ; 
and  yet  he  hesitated  to  inform  his  father,  who  was 
a  magistrate,  because  he  was  well  aware  of  the 
strong  friendship  that  existed  between  the  two  old 


310 


ROSALEEN;  OR, 


gentlemen,  and  suspected  that  his  disclosure  would 
not  have  the  desired  effect.  But  he  adopted  another 
plan.  One  morning  his  father  walked  out  to  the 
kennel  to  see  how  some  of  his  favorite  fox-hounds 
were  getting  on  ;  and  met  Ter  Kelly,  the  whipper- 
in,  before  him,  most  industriously  attending  to  the 
morning  meal  of  the  noisy  dogs. 

“^Yell,  Ter,”  asked  the  old  gentleman,  “how  is 
Miss  Biddy  to-day  ?  ”  (Miss  Biddy,  by  the  way, 
was  the  favorite  of  the  pack,  and  had  been  sick  for 
a  few  days  pi'evious.) 

“Begor!  your  honor,”  answered  the  slippery  Ter, 
“  she’s  gittin’  on  most  beautifully.  Look  at  her  how 
she  aits  !  May  I  never  sin,  if  she’s  not  able  this 
morthial  minnit  to  swally  a  fox,  body  an’  sowl,  an’ 
all  bekaise  o’  the  dhrop  o’  potheen  I  gave  her  this 
mornin’  to  warm  her  heart,  the  crathur!  ” 

“She  looks  better  certainly,”  rejoined  his  master, 
turning  away  satisfied;  but  this  did  not  suit  Ter 
Kelly. 

“  I  hope  your  honor  is  better  o’  the  rheum aties 
this  mornin’,  sir,”  he  said,  “  an’  that  you  heard  the 
morthial  an’  awful  news  that’s  runnin’  about,  like 
wildfire,  through  the  counthry.” 

“  What  news,  you  scoundrel  ?  ”  answered  his  mas¬ 
ter,  whose  joints  began  to  be  afflicted  at  the  moment 
with  some  twinges  of  the  unpleasant  malady  Ter 
had  just  named. 

“The  news  about  the  ruction  that’s  to  be,  your 
honor,”  answered  Ter;  “an’  about  the  way  the 


THE  WHITE  LADY  OF  BARN  A. 


311 


United  Men  are  meeting  every  night,  an’  preparin’ 
to  massacray  every  livin’  sojer  in  the  counthry.  They 
say  also,  that  the  young  masther  over  the  way,” 
and  he  pointed  his  thumb  knowingly  in  the  direc¬ 
tion  of  Fitzgerald’s  home,  “  that  he  is  to  be  gineral 
over  them ;  an’  that  his  name  is  mentioned  in  the 
prophecy  of  Saint  Columkill,  an’  that  he’s  to  walk 
knee-deep  in  the  blood  o’  the  ”  — 

“  Is  that  all  ?  ”  said  the  old  foxhunter,  turning 
away  suddenly,  and  thus  cutting  short  Ter’s  san¬ 
guinary  communication. 

That  was  all  that  morning.  But  day  by  day  the 
news  came  in  from  every  side,  confirming  Ter’s 
statement,  till  at  last  old  Weston  began  to  think  seri¬ 
ously  on  the  matter.  It  is  enough  to  say,  that,  ere 
a  week  was  over,  — so  artfully  had  young  Weston 
worked  out  his  plans,  —  the  two  old  gentlemen  were 
estranged,  and  all  intercourse  forbidden  between 
Rosaleen  and  her  faithful  lover,  John  Fitzgerald. 
But  prohibitions  like  this  are  rarely  obeyed.  The 
lovers  still  met  frequently,  and  vowed  eternal  con¬ 
stancy  to  one  another  at  each  parting. 

It  was  the  summer  of  ’98  ;  and  the  insurrection 
had  at  length  broken  out,  bringing  consternation 
and  sorrow  to  many  a  household  throughout  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  land.  John  Fitzgerald  at 
length  received  a  secret  summons  that  should  be 
obeyed.  It  was  an  intimation  from  the  insurgent 
commander,  that  his  services  were  required  at  head¬ 
quarters;  and,  notwithstanding  his  love  for  Rosaleen 


312 


ROSALEEN ;  OR, 


and  other  circumstances,  he  began  his  preparations 
for  setting  out  for  Wexford,  where  the  war  was 
then  raging  furiously.  The  disclosure  of  his  inten¬ 
tion  fell  heavily  on  the  heart  of  poor  Rosaleen 
Weston.  After  the  first  burst  of  her  grief  was 
over,  tliey  agreed  to  have  one  other  interview  be¬ 
fore  his  departure ;  and,  when  the  hour  came,  they 
met  at  the  usual  trysting-place,  —  a  deep  and  woody 
dell  that  extended  up  the  breast  of  the  high  moun¬ 
tain. 

They  sat  beside  the  tiny  stream  that  tinkled 
downward  through  the  quiet  glen,  and,  with  all  they 
had  to  say,  did  not  perceive  the  time  passing,  till 
the  approach  of  sunset.  The  spot  on  which  they 
were  sitting  afforded  a  splendid  view  over  the 
broad  and  varied  plain  that  extended  far  away  from 
the  foot  of  the  mountains,  and  that  was  bounded 
on  the  south  by  a  steep  and  picturesque  range  of 
hills,  the  green  slopes  and  summits  of  which  the 
setting  sun  was  now  gilding  with  his  expiring 
glories. 

“It  is  a  hard  thing  to  part,  dearest,”  said  John 
Fitzgerald,  looking  fondly  into  the  tearful  eyes  of 
Rosaleen ;  “  but  it  is  harder  still  to  stay  inactive 
here,  branding  my  name  with  dishonor,  breaking 
my  plighted  oath,  and  perhaps  hiding  my  head  in 
shame,  while  my  countrymen  are  bravely  fighting 
for  their  liberties.” 

“  It  is  hard,  John,”  said  Rosaleen,  “  but  does  it 
not  seem  harder  to  leave  me?  Alas!  why  did  you 


THE  WHITE  LADY  OF  BARN  A. 


313 


take  that  fatal  oath  of  the  United  Men  ?  Have  you 
not  liberty  enough?  ” 

“  I  have,  perhaps,  liberty  enough,  Rosaleen,”  an¬ 
swered  her  lover;  “but  there  are  thousands  of  my 
countrymen  ground  down  to  the  dust,  and  it  is  my 
duty  to  give  my  humble  aid  in  assisting  them  to 
arise.  But  I  shall  not  be  long  away,  dearest,”  con¬ 
tinued  he.  “  The  war  cannot  last  long  ;  and  then, 
when  we  are  victorious,  as  I  trust  we  surely  shall 
be-;  when  I  have  gained  by  my  deeds  preferment 
in  the  new  army  of  my  country,  —  then,  darling,  I 
will  return  and  claim  you  as  my  brightest  reward.” 

“Alas!”  answered  Rosaleen,  as  she  burst  into 
tears,  “  it  will  be  a  perilous  time  for  you,  John ;  and, 
for  my  part,  I  cannot  look  on  the  matter  in  any 
other  light.  You  are  going  wilfully  into  danger, 
and  the  day  you  mention  may  never  come,” 

“  But  it  will  come,  Rosaleen,”  exclaimed  her 
lover  vehemently.  “  Our  plans  are  laid  well,  and 
trust  me,  that,  with  God’s  blessing,  I  shall  come  back 
soon,  and  claim  you  for  my  wife.  And  now  we 
must  part.  Good-by,  and  may  Heaven  bless  and 
guard  you!”  And  the  brave  youiig  enthusiast 
clasped  her  in  his  arms,  kissed  her  wet  cheeks 
fondly,  and  in  a  moment  was  gone.  That  night  tb.e 
United  Men  met  on  the  summit  of  the  mountain. 
John  Fitzgerald  was  elected  their  commander;  and, 
putting  himself  at  their  head,  he  marched  gallantly 
down  into  the  plain,  and  by  many  a  wild  and  un¬ 
frequented  path  shaped  his  course  for  Wexford, 


314 


ROSALEEN ;  OR, 


A  deep  melanclioly  fell  upon  the  spirits  of  Rosa- 
leeii  Weston,  after  the  departure  of  her  lover.  She 
that  was  so  joyous  and  happy  while  she  knew 
the  chosen  of  her  heart  was  near,  now  that  he  was 
gone — gone  to  encounter  hardship  and  privation, 
and  perhaps  to  meet  death  upon  the  field  of  battle 
—  was  almost  mad  with  grief,  and  knew  not  a  mo¬ 
ment’s  interval  of  enjoyment.  There  are  some,  who, 
when  parting  from  those  they  love,  feel  a  sudden 
and  violent  burst  of  sorrow,  which,  like  the  moun¬ 
tain  torrent  when  the  storm  is  over,  soon  subsides; 
but  the  grief  of  Rosaleen  was  not  of  this  kind : 
though  deep  and  strong,  it  was  as  enduring  as  her 
veiy  life  itself.  Her  friends,  her  father,  and  all 
tried  to  comfort  her,  but  in  vain. 

The  country  was  now  in  a  state  of  dreadful  com¬ 
motion.  The  insurgents  had  at  length  met  the 
royal  army  face  to  face  upon  a  fair  field,  and  had 
conquered.  Day  after  day  news  came  of  the  prog¬ 
ress  of  the  war.  Three  successive  engagements 
had  again  been  fought,  and  in  each  of  them  the 
royal  party  had  been  worsted.  It  was  indeed  sur- 
j)i-ising  to  witness  the  celerity  with  which  the  intel¬ 
ligence  of  a  battle  spread  throughout  the  country 
at  this  time.  Fugitives  endeavoring  to  return 
secretly  to  their  homes  from  some  skirmish  in  which 
they  had  been  badly  wounded,  carmen  driving 
downward  after  being  pressed  into  the  service  of 
royalists  or  insurgents  to  convey  baggage  to  Wex¬ 
ford,  disbanded  or  deserting  yoeman  hurrying  with 


THE  WHITE  LADY  OF  BAENA. 


315 


terror  in  their  countenances  to  some  place  of  pro¬ 
tection,  spread  —  as  they  brouglit  information  of  the 
success  or  discomfiture  of  the  insurgent  armies  — joy 
or  sorrow  throughout  the  southern  province.  But 
still  no  news  came  of  John  Fitzo’erald. 

Matters  at  last  came  to  a  crisis.  The  battle  of 
Vinegar  Hill  was  fought  and  lost  by  the  insurgents; 
chiefly  indeed  through  tlieir  own  misconduct,  and 
the  irresolution  and  disagreement  of  their  generals. 
Home  was  now  their  signal  word;  and,  as  they 
passed  in  deta(died  parties  through  the  southern 
counties,  they  spread  sorrow  and  consternation  on 
their  way.  A  few  days  after  the  battle,  as  Rosaleen 
Avas  sitting  on  a  shady  seat  out  on  the  lawn,  think¬ 
ing  with  sorrowful  heart  upon  the  i>robable  fate  of 
her  lover,  she  saw  her  brother  riding  quickly 
towards  her  up  a  narrow  walk  that  led  to  the  pub¬ 
lic  road.  He  dismounted,  and,  as  he  took  a  seat 
near  her,  appeared  much  excited,  and  in  a  far  lighter 
and  more  jovial  mood  than  was  usual  to  his  dark  tem- 
jierament.  From  this,  however,  she  could  augur 
nothing  favorable,  and,  with  a  sad  presentiment  at 
her  heart,  begged  of  him,  if  he  had,  as  he  seemed, 
any  intelligence  to  communicate,  to  do  so  at  once. 

“I  was  riding  a  few  hours,”  he  said,  with  an  ex- 
jn-ession  of  mock  sorrow  in  his  dark  face,  “  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill,  and  came  upon  a  party  of  the 
broken-down  rebels  returning  from  the  thrashinar 
they  got  at  Vinegar  Hill.  I  inquired  about  my  old 
comrade,  John  Fitzgerald”  — 


316 


ROSALEEN;  or, 


“  My  God,  Harry !  ”  exclaimed  Rosaleen,  “  tell 
me,  I  beg  of  you,  what  about  him,  at  once,  —  at 
once,  I  tell  you;  for,  no  matter  what’s  past,  he  is 
still  my  betrothed  husband.” 

“I  am  going  to  do  so,”  answered  her  brother 
coolly.  “They  told  me  that  on  the  evening  of  the 
battle,  while  leading  —  like  a  general,  of  course  — 
the  small  detachment  under  his  command  into  the 
final  charge  —  they  said  that  he  was  struck  by  a 
cannon-shot,  and  left  for  dead  upon  the  field.  That’s 
the  fate  of  your  general  that  —  according  to  his  cal¬ 
culations  —  was  to  be.” 

Poor  Rosaleen  could  hear  no  more.  With  a  wild 
shriek  of  despair  and  grief,  she  fell  insensible  from 
her  seat.  This  was  a  result  which  her  cruel  broth¬ 
er  very  little  expected ;  and,  feeling  now  a  real 
apprehension,  he  alarmed  the  servants,  and  Rosa¬ 
leen  was  conveyed  to  her  chamber.  But  there  all 
their  efforts  to  restore  her  to  consciousness  proved 
unavailing.  A  doctor  was  sent  for  immediately  to 
the  nearest  town  ;  but,  when  he  arrived  and  learned 
the  circumstances,  he  shook  his  head,  and  told  her 
father  that  he  had  very  serious  fears  regarding  her 
recovery.  His  fears  were  but  too  well  founded ; 
for,  at  the  dawn  of  the  next  morning,  she  awoke  in 
the  delirium  of  a  brain  fever.  For  many  days  the 
wild  delirium  continued.  At  length  it  subsided 
somewhat.  For  some  hours  she  spoke  to  those 
around  her  with  a  strange  and  unnatural  calmness ; 
but  the  wandering  fits  again  returned,  again  sub- 


THE  WHITE  LADY  OF  BARN  A. 


817 


sided  and  returned,  and  she  finally  relapsed  into  a 
state  of  mental  dei-angernent.  Poor  Rosaleen,  the 
accomplished,  the  guileless,  the  beautiful !  the  fair 
fabric  of  her  mind  was  sapped  to  its  foundation,  and 
the  bright  hopes  she  had  built  up  seemed  shattered 
forevermore. 

After  some  time  she  began  to  gain  a  little  strength, 
and  was  permitted  by  her  father  to  take  a  short 
walk,  occasionally,  into  the  garden  and  round  the 
lawn,  but  at  first  always  attended  by  her  nurse.  On 
these  occasions,  with  that  affecting  simplicity  pecu¬ 
liar  to  persons  in  her  state,  she  usually  employed 
herself  in  searching  round  the  shrubberies,  and  un¬ 
derneath  the  old  beach-trees  that  studded  the  lawn, 
for  something  which  she  appeared  desirous  of  keep¬ 
ing  secret.  On  retuniing  one  evening  from  one  of 
these  rambles,  she  appeared  more  dejected  than 
usual;  and,  when  her  nurse  inquired  the  cause  of 
her  sadness,  she  burst  into  a  violent  fit  of  weeping, 
saying  that  she  was  ever  searching  round  the  lawn 
for  John  Fitzgerald’s  grave,  but  that  she  could  never 
find.  it.  Time  wore  on :  the  vigilance  with  which 
she  was  watched  began  to  be  relaxed,  and  she  was 
frequently  permitted  to  walk  alone  round  the  liiwn, 
and  farther  into  the  demesne.  She  had  not  indeed 
abandoned  the  idea  that  her  lover’s  grave  was 
somewhere  near  ;  and  between  seai'ching  for  it,  and 
plucking  garlands  of  wild  flowers  to  deck  it,  should 
her  search  prove  successful,  she  spent  most  of  her 
time  in  the  open  air  during  the  beautiful  evenings 


318 


EOS  ALE  EN;  OE, 


of  declining  summer,  but  at  the  same  time  always 
returned  punctually  before  nightfall. 

One  evening  Rosaleen  Weston  did  not  appear  in 
her  father’s  parlor  at  her  usual  hour.  The  old  gen¬ 
tleman,  after  waiting  some  time,  sent  out  a  couple 
of  the  servants  to  see  what  caused  her  delay.  They 
came  hastily  back,  saying  that  they  had  searched 
round  all  her  haunts,  but  could  not  find  her.  A  gen¬ 
eral  search  was  now  made,  but  it  was  unsuccessful. 
The  tenantry  around  were  by  this  time  made 
acquainted  with  Avhat  had  happened ;  and  a  sharp 
search  was  made  round  the  villages  near,  round  the 
base  of  the  mountain,  and  into  the  wild  dells  where 
she  loved  so  much  to  ramble  when  John  Fitzgei’ald 
was  by  her  side  :  but  still  no  Rosaleen  could  be 
found.  In  the  darkness,  still  the  search  was  con¬ 
tinued  ;  but  it  was  unavailing.  Morning  dawned 
upon  the  heart-broken  father  and  the  remorseful 
brother,  and  another  and  more  vigorous  search  was 
made,  but  with  the  same  success  as  on  the  pre¬ 
ceding  day  and  night. 

Years  before,  ere  dissension  had  arisen  between 
their  fathers,  young  Rosaleen  and  her  lover  fre¬ 
quently  ascended  to  the  summit  of  the  mountain 
on  the  side  of  which  lay  their  last  trysting-place. 
There  they  were  wont  to  sit  for  hours,  and  talk  of 
the  wild  legends  told  by  the  peasantry  in  connec¬ 
tion  with  that  stately  mountain.  Often,  too,  John 
Fitzgerald  would  tell  her  stories  of  the  battered  old 
castles  that  lay  beneath,  of  the  bravery  of  the 


THE  WHITE  LAEY  OF  BAUKA. 


319 


sturdy  chiefs  tliat  held  them  in  the  olden  time,  and 
the  manner  in  which  they  fought  against  the  enemy 
of  their  native  land  on  many  a  well-contested  field. 
There  was  one  feature  of  the  scene,  however,  on 
which  the  lovers,  particularly  at  sunset,  looked  with 
more  delight  than  on  all  the  others.  It  was  the 
beautiful  range  of  hills  that  formed  the  far  southern 
boundary  of  the  broad  plain  beneath.  One  of  these 
hills  towered  high  above  its  neighbors,  in  the  shape 
of  a  smooth  green  cone,  with  scattered  woods  run¬ 
ning  up  its  sides,  and  a  solitary  rock  upon  its  sum¬ 
mit.  On  a  certain  evening  they  were  sitting  on 
their  usual  seat  on  the  summit  of  the  mountain 
near  their  home.  A  gorgeous  scene  lay  before  them. 
The  silent  plain,  the  broad  river  that  ran  along  its 
northern  verge  glittering  like  a  stream  of  gold  in 
the  descending  sun,  and  the  far  circle  of  suri-ounding 
mountains,  brought  a  holy  and  strange  calmness  into 
their  young  hearts. 

“  How  red  and  clear !  ”  exclaimed  John  Fitzgerald, 
turning  towards  their  favorite  point  of  the  prospect: 
“  how  bright  the  sunset  falls  upon  that  lonely  group 
of  hills  !  ” 

“  And  look,”  answered  Rosaleen,  “  at  the  little 
rock  on  the  point  of  the  highest  hill.  It  is  like  one 
of  those  ancient  altars  you  tell  me  of,  where  the 
ancient  inhabitants  worshipped  the  sun.” 

“Yes,”  rejoined  her  lover;  “and  beneath,  how 
bright  it  is !  Ah !  Rosaleen,  when  in  after  times 
death  shall  steal  upon  us,  how  I  long  that  we  could 


320 


ROSALEEN ;  OR, 


sleep  side  by  side  in  one  of  those  peaceful  and 
lonely  gorges !  There  the  birds  would  sing  day 
after  day  their  sweet  songs,  the  wild  flowers  would 
bloom  undisturbed  over  our  grave,  and  the  moun¬ 
tain  streams  murmur  around  it  joyously  forever.” 

On  the  evening  previous  to  Rosaleen’s  disappear¬ 
ance,  she  had  paid  a  stolen  visit  to  the  summit  of 
the  mountaiu  from  which  they  viewed  that  loved 
scene  so  often.  Casting  her  eyes  to  the  south,  she 
beheld  again  that  beautiful  chain  of  hills  in  all  their 
sunset  glory.  Suddenly  it  struck  her  mind  that 
the  wish  of  hei'  lover  might  have  been  fulfilled, 
and  that  his  grave  lay  in  the  sunlit  gorge  he  had 
pointed  out  on  the  evening  alluded  to  above. 

“  It  must  be  so,”  she  exclaimed,  as  she  now  quick¬ 
ly  descended  the  mountain.  “  His  grave  must  be 
there,  and  I  will  go  and  seek  it.” 

She  hurried  homeward,  and  it  was  noticed  by 
those  who  attended  on  her  that  she  appeared  on  that 
night  in  a  happier  state  of  mind  than  usual.  Next 
day,  at  her  usual  time  of  walking,  wrapping  herself 
in  a  large  mantle  which  she  occasionally  wore,  she 
stole  out,  and  proceeded  by  an  unfrequented  path  in 
the  direction  of  the  southern  chain  of  hills.  And 
thus  it  was  that  she  had  disappeared  from  her 
home. 

At  the  foot  of  the  highest  of  these  hills,  there 
was  at  that  time  a  small  village  called  Barna.  It 
was  completely  surrounded  by  woods,  the  remains 
of  the  ancient  forest  that  once  clothed  the  whole 


THE  WHITE  LADA  OF  BARNA. 


321 


of  that  wild  and  romantic  district.  At  the  upper 
end  of  this  village,  there  was  a  green  glade  in  the 
wood,  sloping  up  the  foot  of  the  mountain  ;  and  in 
a  level  hollow  of  this  glade,  beneath  a  huge  syca¬ 
more-tree,  the  villagers  were  accustomed  to  sit  on 
holiday  evenings,  listening  to  the  strain  of  some 
wandering  musician,  or  the  tale  of  some  ancient 
shanachie,  or  story-teller.  One  evening  they  were 
all  not  a  little  astounded  at  the  sight  of  a  young 
and  beautiful  lady,  dressed  in  white,  and  sitting  on 
the  verge  of  the  glade,  smiling  at  them,  and  watch¬ 
ing  their  merriment.  It  was  poor  Rosaleen  Wes¬ 
ton.  How  she  had  reached  the  place,  and  how  she 
continued  to  subsist  during  her  sore  and  toilsome 
journey,  she  was  unable  during  the  whole  of  her 
after  life  —  and  it  was  a  long  one  —  to  remember. 
But  there,  however,  she  was,  to  the  no  small  wonder¬ 
ment  of  the  villagers.  First,  they  thought  her  a 
spirit,  and  were  inclined  to  scatter  in  consternation 
to  their  homes.  By  degrees,  however,  their  curiosity 
got  the  better  of  their  fear.  They  waited,  gazing 
silently  upon  her,  until  at  length  she  rose,  came 
down  to  tiifc  tree,  and  spoke  to  them.  Then  tlicy 
soon  found  out  what  she  was,  and  the  sad  mental 
malady  into  which  she  had  fallen.  In  that  quiet 
hamlet  she  lived  for  nearly  a  month,  and  was  treated 
kindly  and  tenderly  by  the  poor  villagers,  who  soon 
grew  to  love  her  for  her  simple  ways,  her  beauty, 
and  her  artless  talk,  and  more  than  all,  because,  as 
they  said,  her  mind  was  gone,  and  that  it  was  their 

21 


322 


ROSALEEN;  OR, 


duty  to  tend  her  and  guard  her  well.  She  had 
found  a  green  spot  amid  the  wood,  wliich  she  said 
was  her  lover’s  grave ;  and  day  by  day  she  visited  it, 
decked  it  with  flowers,  and  sang  sad  songs  over  it. 

One  day,  about  a  month  after  her  arrival,  she  was 
sitting  on  the  green  spot  in  the  wood,  weaving  a 
garland  of  flowers.  Suddenly  she  heard  a  step 
behind  her,  and,  on  turning  round,  beheld  her  lover. 

She  started  to  her  feet,  flew  to  him,  clung  fondly 
around  him  for  a  moment,  and  then  dropped  down 
into  a  long  but  quiet  swoon.  When  she  awoke, 
John  Fitzgerald  was  bending  over  her,  and  sj)rink- 
ling  her  brow  with  water.  Strange  to  say,  her  men¬ 
tal  malady  was  quite  gone ;  and  she  now  remem¬ 
bered  every  thing  distinctly  that  had  happened 
previous  to  that  terrible  moment  her  brother  had 
given  his  fatal  and  treacherous  news  on  the  lawn. 

John  Fitzgerald  had  been  only  slightly  wounded 
at  Vinegar  Hill.  He  had,  some  time  after  the 
battle,  returned  to  his  native  })lace,  where  he  con¬ 
trived  to  evade  the  officers  of  the  Government. 

Hearing  of  the  disappearance  of  Rosaleen,  he 
had  made  search  for  her  during  many  aweary  day, 
and  was  now  rewarded  well  for  his  trouble. 

“How  can  we  go  home  ?  ”  said  Rosaleen.  “Ah  ! 
John,  it  was  a  weary  time  for  me;  but  I  hope  we 
will  be  parted  no  more.  And  yet  I  fear  my  father 
and  brother.” 

“We  will  not  go  home,”  answered  her  lover. 
“  The  priest  of  this  parish  is  my  father’s  cousin. 


THE  WHITE  LADY  OF  BARN  A. 


323 


He  will  marry  us ;  and  then  we  can  easily  reach 
France,  where  I  trust  to  be  able  to  advance  myself 
in  the  profession  I  have  chosen,  —  as  a  soldier.” 

They  were  married;  they  contrived  to  reach 
France  also,  and  there  John  Fitzgerald  prospered  in 
his  profession.  About  eighteen  years  afterwards,  a 
carriage  drove  by  the  village  of  Barna,  where  they 
still  remembered  the  White  Lady.  It  stopped  at 
the  little  inn  by  the  wayside.  In  it  were  a  dark, 
military-looking  gentleman  and  a  lady,  who  desired 
that  the  heads  of  the  different  families  in  the  village 
should  come  to  them.  To  each  they  gave  a  present 
of  money ;  for  the  sake,  they  said,  of  the  poor  young 
lady  that  had  received  such  kindly  shelter  there 
many  years  before.  Away  again  rolled  the  car¬ 
riage  over  the  great  plain,  and,  stopping  only  to 
change  horses  at  an  occasional  town,  at  length 
arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  and  before  the 
gate  of  old  Fitzgerald,  who  was  still  living.  It 
was  Capt.  John  Fitzgerald  and  his  lady,  the  still  fair 
Rosaleen. 

At  this  part  of  his  manuscript,  the  doctor  goes  so 
deeply  and  profoundly  into  the  analysis  of  human 
feelings  that,  it  is  impossible  to  follow  him  in  his 
lucubrations.  The  reader  will  easily  conceive  the 
joy  of  old  Fitzgerald  and  his  son  and  daughter-in- 
law  at  their  meeting  after  so  many  years’  separation. 
Rosaleen’s  father  was  dead ;  and  her  brother  married 
and  flourishing —  as  if  he  had  never  done  wrong  — 
upon  his  ancestral  estate.  Probably  he  had  repented 


3*^4  THE  WHITE  LADY  OF  BARN  A. 

of  his  bad  deeds ;  else,  I  am  sure,  the  erudite  and 
somewhat  irascible  doctor  would  have  done  him 
poetic  justice  in  his  manuscript.  After  some  time 
old  Fitzgerald  also  died,  and  Capt.  John  succeeded 
to  the  estate. 

On  finishing  my  notes  from  this  part  of  the  manu¬ 
script,  the  doctor,  guessing  to  what  I  had  arrived, 
raised  his  head  somewhat,  and  put  back  his  white 
hair  from  his  forehead.  Still  gazing  on  a  page  of 
“The  Lancet,”  however,  he  said,  half  to  himself  and 
half  to  me,  — 

“June  30,  1858,  eleven  o’clock,  p.m.,  Capt.  John 
Fitzgerald  and  Rosaleen  his  wife,  cheerfully  and 
without  pain,  and  surrounded  by  their  children, 
grandchildren,  and  great-grandchildren,  both  died 
—  died  on  the  same  instant.” 


The  Bridal  Ring. 


A  STORY  OF  CAHIR  CASTLE. 


HE  site  on  which  Cahir  Castle  is  built  was 


-I-  formerly  a  dun^  or  fort,  —  a  structure  which  was 
formed  of  woodwork  and  earthen  embankments. 
The  present  castle  was  founded,  it  would  seem,  by 
one  of  those  bold  Norman  adventurers  who  came  to 
our  shores  in  the  train  of  the  Earl  of  Chepstow,  or 
Strongbow,  as  he  was  more  familiarly  called.  It 
stands  upon  an  island  rock  which  divides  the  waters 
of  the  Suir,  and,  during  the  several  wars  that  raged 
in  Ireland  since  the  invasion,  was  always  a  place  of 
great  strength  and  importance.  It  belonged,  since 
the  beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century,  to  the  pow¬ 
erful  house  of  Ormond;  for  we  find  it  then  in  pos¬ 
session  of  James  Butler,  son  of  James  the  third 
earl,  by  Catherine,  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Desmond. 
During  the  wars  of  Elizabeth  and  those  of  the  suc- 
•  ceeding  reigns,  it  changed  hands  frequently,  and 
stood  several  gallant  sieges,  the  relation  of  which 
would  be  far  too  long  for  the  limits  of  this  story. 


326 


326 


THE  BRIDAL  BING. 


The  ancient  Irish  name  ^  of  the  town  of  Cahir  was 
Cahir  duna-iascaigh ;  that  is,  the  circular  fortress 
of  the  fish-abounding  fort.  One  of  the  incidents 
connected  with  the  military  history  of  Cahir  Castle 
is  told  in  the  following  story :  — 

In  a  corner  of  a  solitary  churchyard  some  short 
distance  from  Cahir,  there  lies  a  portion  of  an  ancient 
tomb,  namely,  the  upper  half  of  a  limestone  slab, 
which  is  now  almost  completely  hidden  from  the  eye 
of  the  curious  visitor  by  the  rank  and  luxuriant 
growth  of  docks,  nettles,  and  other  weeds  that 
clothe  the  silent  dwellings  of  the  dead  around.  If 
you  raise  it  up,  and  rub  the  moss  carefully  from  its 
timeworn  face,  you  will  be  rewarded  with  the  sight 
of  the  following  portion  of  an  inscription :  — 

“  Heere  lieth  ye  bodye  of  John  de  Botiller, 
who  was  shot. 

Alsoe  ye  bodye  of  his  Wife  Mary  de  Botiller, 
who  died  when  he  died. 

Their  youthe  was  Love, 

Their  courtshippe  was  Love, 

Their  marriage-daie  was  Love, 

Their  wedded  life  was  Love, 

Their  deathe  was  Love, 

And  — —  " 

What  the  remaining  portion  of  the  inscription  was 
will  most  probably  remain  unknown  forever;  for 
the  fracture  occurs  at  the  word  “  And,  ”  while  the 
other  half  of  the  slab  is  lost.  Many  an  hour’s  toil 
the  search  for  that  lost  fragment  of .  sculptured  lime- 


THE  BRIDAL  RING. 


327 


stone  cost  us :  but  it  was  all  of  no  avail ;  and  the 
history  of  the  personages  whom  the  above  quaint 
words  commemorate  would  perhaps  have  remained 
in  obscurity  till  the  end  of  time,  were  it  not  that  we 
happened,  some  years  ago,  to  meet  Brian  Tiernay,  of 
Templetenny,  as  fine  and  jovial  and  stalwarth,  and 
withal  as  venerable,  a  s})ecimen  of  a  senacJiie.,  or 
story-teller,  as  you  would  find  within  the  four  seas  of 
old  Ireland.  Brian  Tiernay’s  relation  is  far  too  long 
to  come  within  the  limits  of  such  a  short  tale  as  this 
must  necessarily  be.  Stripping  it,  therefore,  of 
some  of  its  ornate  flourishes,  and  a  great  number  of 
incidental  episodes,  we  shall  proceed  to  relate  the 
thread  of  the  story  according  to  his  version. 

About  a  mile  or  so  to  the  south-east  of  Cahir  Castle, 
there  stood,  on  a  high  crag  over  the  Suir,  a  square 
tower,  or  peel-house  as  they  would  call  it  in  Scotland; 
which  tower  was  for  a  long  time  the  dwelling  of 
"Walter  Ridensford,  an  ancient  retainer  of  the  great 
house  of  Ormond.  The  tower  was  one  of  a  chain  of 
similar  buildings,  which,  with  their  high  bawn  walls 
and  strong  gates,  stood  at  the  distance  of  a  few 
miles  from  one  another  towards  the  south  and  west, 
in  a  semicircle  beyond  the  great  border  fortress  of 
Cahir,  and  acted  as  advanced  posts  through  which 
an  enemy  would  have  to  pierce  before  he  could 
attack  the  strongly-situated  central  castle.-  The 
tower  to  which  we  allude  was  called  Tig-na-Sg-iath, 
or  the  House  of  the  Shield,  from  a  rude  representa¬ 
tion  of  that  defensive  appurtenance  of  a  warrior, 


328 


THE  BRIDAL  RING. 


which  was  sculptured  over  the  sturdy  archway  that 
led  into  the  bawn.  It  was  a  strong  place,  and  espe¬ 
cially  so  during  the  time  it  was  occupied  by  the 
brave  old  castellan  whom  we  have  named  above. 

Walter  Ridensford,  or  Wattie  Stem-the-Stream, 
as  he  was  called  along  the  borders,  —  by  which  we 
mean  that  strip  of  debatable  land  which  lay  between 
the  territories  of  the  two  great  and  rival  houses  of 
Ormond  and  Desmond,  —  was  one  of  the  most  eccen¬ 
tric  men  that  ever  struck  morion  on  head  to  follow 
the  banner  of  his  master  on  fray  or  foray.  At  the 
time  of  our  story,  he  had  attained  to  that  respecta¬ 
ble  age  which  generally  precludes  a  man  from  en¬ 
gaging  in  the  rough  and  dangerous  occupations 
of  war.  But  time  seemed  to  have  had  but  little  effect 
upon  the  iron  frame  and  hardy  spirit  of  Wattie- 
Stem-the-Stream ;  for  he  was  still  one  of  the  most 
quarrelsome,  and  at  the  same  time  most*  formidable, 
of  all  those  I’etainers  of  the  house  of  Ormond  who  in¬ 
habited  that  dangerous  and  troublesome  district  lying 
along  the  south-western  banks  of  the  Suir.  Many 
a  single  combat  he  had  fought,  and  many  a  foray  he 
had  ridden,  in  every  one  of  which,  by  some  good 
chance  or  other,  he  had  been  successful ;  and  this, 
we  need  not  say,  caused  him  to  be  regarded  as  a 
personage  of  no  small  consequence  by  the  various 
seneschals,  castellans,  and  other  people  of  note  and 
authority  for  many  a  mile  round.  Wattie  had  mar¬ 
ried  late  in  life  ;  and  his  wife,  dying  soon  after,  left 
behind  her  an  only  daughter,  who  was  dear  as  the 


THE  BRIDAL  RING. 


329 


apple  of  liis  eye  to  the  old  warrior,  and  who,  about 
the  period  at  which  our  story  commences,  was  nearly 
seventeen  years  of  age. 

Mary  Ridensford  was  a  beautiful  and  gentle  girl ; 
and,  when  we  say  that  much  of  her,  it  is  enough  to 
indicate  the  fact  that  her  hand  was  sought  in  mar¬ 
riage  by  many  a  young  cavalier  of  the  borders. 
But  to  all  those,  when  they  ventured  to  speak  upon 
such  a  delicate  subject  to  Wattie  Stem-the-Stream, 
.that  grim  old  warrior  made  the  rather  ambiguous  an¬ 
swer,  that  no  one  but  the  best  man  in  Ormond  would 
get  his  daughter  for  a  wife.  This  oracular  response, 
it  seems,  instead  of  decreasing,  added  considerably 
to  the  number  of  young  Mary  Ridensford’s  suitors. 
There  was  Gibbon  of  the  Wood,  from  the  banks  of 
Funcheon,  who  looked  upon  her  with  a  loving  eye, 
and  who  gave  it  out  that  he  would  cheerfully  do 
battle  with  sword  and  axe  —  if  that  was  the  mean¬ 
ing  of  old  Wattie  Stem-the-Stream’s  answer  — 

O 

against  any  competitor  for  the  lady’s  hand;  there 
Avas  Donat  Burke  of  Ruscoe,  who  swore,  that,  as  he 
had  lost  his  heart,  he  did  not  care  a  straw  about  losing 
his  head  for  her  sake  ;  there  was  Raimond  Grace,  of 
Burnfort,  who  made  oath  to  his  confidential  friend, 
that,  along  with  putting  his  heart’s  blood  in  jeopardy 
for  the  sake  of  gaining  her  affections,  he  would  will¬ 
ingly  throw  his  lands  and  castle  into  the  bargain; 
and  there  was  a  host  of  others.  But  the  rivalry  at 
last  seemed  hottest  between  Gibbon  of  the  W ood 
and  the  young  castellan  of  Cnoc  Graffon,  whose 


330 


THE  BRIDAL  RING. 


name  was  John  de  Botiller,  or  Butler,  and  who, 
besides  being  a  distant  cousin  of  the  Earl  of  Ormond, 
Avas  also  accounted  the  boldest  horseman  of  the  bor¬ 
der,  and  the  best  and  truest  hand  at  sword-play, 
pistol-mark,  or  deft  tricks  of  dagger  in  time  of  war, 
and  also  in  every  athletic  amusement  on  festival 
days  on  village  green  and  by  fairy  well.  One  day 
John  de  Botiller  received  intimation  from  one  of  his 
daltins,  or  horseboys,  that  Gibbon  of  the  Wood  had 
just  paid  a  visit,  on  matrimonial  subjects  intent, 
to  the  House  of  the  Shield.  This  information  was 
not,  of  course,  very  welcome  to  the  young  and  fiery 
castellan  of  Cnoc  GralFon.  With  a  dark  brow  he 
began  revolving  the  subject  in  his  mind,  and  at  last 
took  his  horse,  and  rode  away  for  the  purpose  of 
paying  a  similar  visit  to  W attie  Stem-the-Stream. 
He  found  that  worthy  sitting  by  his  castle-gate, 
grimly  contemplating  a  certain  pass  in  the  far-off 
range  of  mountains,  where,  once  upon  a  time,  he  had 
the  satisfaction  of  seeing  a  detachment  of  the  Des¬ 
mond  soldiers  cut  to  pieces  by  the  followers  of  his 
ancient  lord  and  master,  Thomas  the  Black,  Earl  of 
Ormond.  How,  the  young  castellan  of  Cnoc  Graf- 
fon  knew  well  the  kind  of  man  he  had  to  deal  with, 
and  proceeded  at  once  to  business,  with  an  abruptness 
and  candor  wofully  contrasting  with  the  match¬ 
making  chicanery  and  matrimonial  circumlocutions 
of  more  modern  times. 

“  Wat  Ridensford,”  said  he,  on  receiving  the  curt 
but  hearty  welcome  of  the  old  man,  “  you  know  me 


THE  BRIDAL  RING. 


331 


since  I  was  a  child.  I  have  nothing  but  my  castle 
and  a  few  acres  around  it,  —  nothing  else  but  my 
sword  to  help  me  on  through  the  world :  will  you 
give  me  your  daughter  for  a  wife  ?  ” 

“  That  I  cannot  tell,”  answered  the  phlegmatic 
Wattie.  “  I  have  often  said  that  the  best  and  bravest 
man  in  Ormond  only  should  get  her.  What  do  you 
say  to  that  ?  ” 

“Nothing,”  answered  John  de  Botiller,  “noth¬ 
ing,  only  that  I  cannot  understand  it.  I  tell  you 
what  I  have  heard,  that  Gibbon  of  the  Wood  was 
here  to-day.  To  him,  I  suppose,  you  have  given  the 
same  answer ;  but  know,  W attie  Stem-the-Stream, 
that  as  I  have  come  —  yes,  come  here  for,  I  believe, 
the  twelfth  time,  I  am  determined  not  to  be  put 
olF  with  a  riddle  any  longer.”  It  was  now  he 
showed  his  knowledge  of  Wattle’s  character.  “  You 
must  tell  me  what  you  mean,”  continued  he.  “If 
you  do  not,  here  is  a  level  space  before  us ;  draw 
your  sword,  and  you  will  soon  see,  that,  if  you 
were  twice  as  good  a  man  as  you  are.  I’ll  whip  the 
answer  in  a  trice  out  of  that  old  iron  carcass  of 
yours.  Draw.” 

This  was  exactly  what  Wattie  wanted,  and  what 
he  was  for  a  long  time  expecting  from  some  one  of 
the  suitors  for  his  daughter’s  hand.  He  now  quietly 
stood  up,  and  drew  the  heavy  sword  he  usually  ^car¬ 
ried  by  his  side.  With  a  grim  smile  of  mingled 
approval  and  affection,  he  looked  upon  the  splendid 
figure  of  the  young  castellan  of  Cnoc  Grafibn,  as  the 


332 


THE  BRIDAL  RING. 


latter  stood  opposite  him,  also  with  his  drawn  sword 
in  hand,  ready  to  begin  the  strange  combat. 

“  The  answer,  the  answer !  ”  cried  J ohn  de  Botil- 
ler. 

“  Take  that,  instead,”  answered  Wattie,  making  a 
playful  cut  of  his  sword  at  the  young  castellan, 
which,  however,  the  latter  avoided  by  a  nimble 
bound  in  a  backward  direction.  A  sharp  combat, 
half  play,  half  earnest,  ensued ;  the  result  of  which 
was,  that  W^attie  was  at  last  beaten  back  against  the 
wall  by  his  young-  antagonist. 

“Yield,  Wattie!  yield,  and  give  the  answer!  ”  ex¬ 
claimed  John  de  Botiller,  as  the  old  man  planted 
his  back  against  the  wall,  and  stood  warily  on 
his  defence.  “  Yield,  yield!  ”  continued  he,  dancing 
nimbly  round,  and  making  various  playful  lunges 
and  slashes  at  the  old  man,  at  which  the  latter  at 
length  burst  into  a  hearty  and  sonorous  fit  of  laugh¬ 
ter,  and  dropped  the  point  of  his  sword  with  a  mock 
grimace  on  his  swarthy  old  countenance,  in  token 
of  submission. 

“  The  answer  you  shall  have,  by  my  father’s 
head !”  exclaimed  Wattie,  as  he  now  planted  him¬ 
self  upon  the  stone  seat  by  the  gateway,  and  invited 
the  young  horseman  to  take  a  se.at  beside  him. 
“  Here  it  is,”  continued  he.  “  I  have  sworn  that 
notie  but  the  best  man  in  Ormond  shall  get  my 
daughter  for  a  wife;  and  you  may  be  sure  that 
Wattie  Ridensford  is  not  the  man  to  break  his  oath. 
I  will  appoint  a  day  on  which  the  suitors  can  come 


THE  BRIDAL  RING. 


333 


to  Tig-na-Sgiath,  and  try  their  j^rowess  at  every 
kind  of  exercise.  On  that  day,  if  you  come,  you 
will  get  your  chance ;  and,  between  us  both,”  con¬ 
tinued  he,  grasping  the  hand  of  the  young  castellan, 
and  giving  it  a  tremendous  squeeze,  “  I  wish  you  suc¬ 
cess  ;  so,  whatever  happens  by  flood  or  field,  be  here 
on  the  day  appointed.” 

“It  is  enough,”  said  John  de  Botiller,  returning 
the  fi-iendly  grasp  of  the  old  soldier.  “  I  will  be 
here ;  and,  with  Mary  looking  on  me  from  the  cas¬ 
tle  window,  I  hope  to  acquit  myself  so  that  I  shall 
come  ofl*  the  winner  of  her  fair  hand.” 

With  that  he  bade  farewell  to  old  Wattie,  and 
rode  away  to  Cnoc  Grafibn.  This  occurred  on  the 
evening  of  May-day;  but,  ere  a  fortnight  was  over, 
there  was  a  storm  raised  in  the  land,  which  left  but 
little  time  to  the  wooers  of  young  Mary  Ridensford 
to  think  on  the  day  of  trial,  whatever  time  it  might 
occur.  The  Earl  of  Essex  had  marched  southwards, 
and  laid  siege  to  Cahir  Castle.  After  several  sallies 
and  skirmishes  between  the  belligerents,  and  a  ter¬ 
rible  cannonade  from  the  batteries  of  Essex,  the 
latter  at  length  succeeded  in  taking  possession  of 
the  fortress.  Leaving  a  garrison  behind  him,  he 
then  marched  into  Desmond,  fighting  various  bat¬ 
tles  as  he  proceeded.  Throughout  the  whole  siege, 
John  de  Botiller  and  all  the  young  men  of  the 
neighborhood  were,  of  course,  enqoloyed  in  defend¬ 
ing  the  castle  ;  but  now,  when  all  was  over,  they 
began  to  think  of  the  strange  resolution  the  old 


334 


THE  BRIDAL  RING. 


Master  of  Tig-na-Sgiatli  had  come  to  with  regard  to 
the  disposal  of  the  hand  of  his  daughter.  They  so 
importuned  Wattie,  that  he  at  last  fixed  a  day ;  and 
now,  without  the  slightest  consideration  for  the  feel¬ 
ings  of  his  daughter,  although  he  loved  her  well,  he 
awaited  its  coming;  thinking,  of  course,  that  the 
bravest  soldier  and  most  active  man  in  the  country, 
whoever  he  was,  would  make  the  best  and  fondest 
husband  for  Mary.  But  the  latter  did  not  agree 
with  her  father’s  notions  on  the  matter.  She  loved 
the  handsome  young  castellan  of  Cnoc  Graffon,  and 
was  resolved  to  marry  no  one  else,  whoever  the  suc¬ 
cessful  competitor  might  be  on  Midsummer  Day; 
for  that  was  the  one  ajjpointed  by  Wattie  for  the 
trial  between  her  wooers.  Many  an  hour  she  sat 
and  wept  in  her  little  chamber  in  the  House  of  the 
Shield,  thinking  of  the  dangerous  position  she  was 
in  ;  and  what  must  have  been  her  grief  and  terror, 
when  at  last  Midsummer  Day  came,  and,  though  a 
numerous  throng  of  competitors  had  arrived  at  the 
castle,  there  was  still  no  appearance  of  John  de 
Botiller !  The  latter,  however,  was  a  score  of  miles 
away  at  the  time,  acting  as  officer  of  the  guard  at 
Garrick  Castle,  where  military  discipline  was  en¬ 
forced  with  such  strictness  that  he  did  not  dare  to 
leave  his  post  during  the  temporary  absence  of  Lord 
Ormond. 

Meanwhile  the  trial  between  the  wooers  at  the 
House  of  the  Shield  went  on  gloriously,  Wattie 
Stem-the-Stream  wondering  from  time  to  time  at 


THE  BRIDAL  RING. 


335 


the  continued  absence  of  the  young  castellan  of 
Cnoc  Graffon,  whose  suit  he  favored  secretly.  Several 
competitors  had  given  in,  as  the  day  advanced ;  and, 
before  noon  was  over,  the  contest,  in  every  athletic 
trial,  lay  principally  between  Gibbon  of  the  Wood, 
Donat  Burke  of  Ruscoe,  and  Raymond  Grace,  the 
young  Lord  of  Burnfort.  Poor  Donat  Burke  at 
last  nearly  fractured  his  knee,  at  the  leaping  of  the 
bawn  wall,  and  gave  up  the  contest ;  so  that,  to  all 
appearance,  the  hand  of  Mary  Ridensford  was  des¬ 
tined  in  a  short  time  to  fall  to  the  lot  of  either 
Raymond  Grace  or  the  sturdy  Gibbon  of  the  Wood, 
both  of  whom  were  en2:ao:ed  at  a  terrible  bout  of 
wrestling  on  the  level  bawn.  At  length  Raymond 
went  down ;  and,  notwithstanding  his  various 
threats,  that  he  would  peril  life  and  lands  to  gain 
the  hand  of  Mary  Ridensford,  and  a  gratuitous  one 
to  the  effect  that  he  would  have  the  heart’s  blood 
of  any  other  man  that  would  succeed  in  winning  it, 
he  very  philosophically  gave  in  at  the  proposal  of 
the  next  and  final  trial,  which  was  to  be  a  deadly 
bout  between  himself  and  the  formidable  Gibbon, 
with  broadsword,  buckler,  and  skean. 

And  now  Gibbon  of  the  Wood  boldly  claimed  the 
hand  of  poor  Mary,  who  was  at  the  moment,  with 
bitter  tears  in  her  eyes,  looking  over  the  sloping 
plain  beyond  the  Suir,  expecting  her  lover  to  make 
his  appearance.  And  he  did  appear  at  last,  just  as 
the  fatal  words  were  about  being  spoken  by  her 
father,  that  would  make  her  the  affianced  wife  of  the 


336 


THE  BRIDAL  RING. 


dreaded  Gibbon.  Lord  Ormond  had  returned  to 
Garrick  early  that  morning;  and,  when  he  heard  the 
story  from  the  young  castellan  of  Cnoc  Gralfon,  he 
laughed  heartily,  and  gave  the  latter  liberty  to  set 
off  as  fast  as  his  good  steed  would  carry  him  for 
the  House  of  the  Shield.  There  John  de  Botiller 
arrived  at  the  time  we  have  indicated ;  and  a  ter¬ 
rible  contest  commenced  between  him  and  the  now 
enraged  Gibbon,  who  did  not  give  in  till  he  had  lost 
the  two  best  fingers  of  his  right  hand,  in  the  last 
trial  with  skean  and  broadsword. 

And  so  John  de  Botiller  won  the  hand  of  the 
lovely  Mary  Ridensford,  and  they  were  wedded 
shortly  afterwards.  But  there  were  tears  in  her 
eyes  soon  after  the  marriage;  for,  two  days  after¬ 
wards,  her  young  husband  was  forced  to  bid  her 
farewell,  and,  with  as  many  men  as  he  could  muster, 
return  to  the  banner  of  Loi’d  Ormond,  the  eastern 
borders  of  whose  territory  were  at  the  time  in  a 
state  of  war  and  trouble  and  continual  tumult. 

•  Many  a  weary  moon  passed  over  poor  Mary,  as  she 
sat  in  the  turret  window  of  her  father’s  house,  look¬ 
ing  out  over  the  wide  plains  for  the  return  of  hei 
gallant  husband;  but  he  came  not,  for  he  was  still 
taking  part  in  the  raids  of  Lord  Ormond,  on  the  far- 
off  eastern  borders.  Many  a  time  she  looked  upon 
her  marriage-ring,  and  bathed  it  with  tears,  as  she 
thought  of  the  day  on  which  John  de  Botiller  had 
placed  it  on  her  finger. 

And  now  the  south-western  borders  began  to 


THE  BRIDAL  RING. 


337 


come  in  for  their  share  of  the  troubles.  Wattle 
Stem-the-Stream  and  the  other  castellans  of  the 
neighborhood  rose  with  their  followers,  and  fell 
uiDon  Cahir  Castle ;  but,  after  a  sharp  contest  with 
the  garrison  left  behind  by  Essex,  they  were  forced 
to  retire  from  its  walls.  In  consequence  of  this 
attack,  the  President  of  Munster  sent  Sir  John 
Dowdall,  a  veteran  soldier  of  the  Queen,  across  the 
mountains  from  Youghal,  to  quiet  the  borders,  and 
place  a  fresh  garrison  in  Cahir  Castle.  Sir  J ohn  ex¬ 
ecuted  his  commission  with  a  high  and  successful 
hand.  He  not  only  succeeded  in  throwing  in  the 
garrison,  but  he  also  laid  siege  to  and  took  the 
whole  chain  of  border  towers,  one  after  the  other, 
—  the  stronghold  of  Tig-na-Sgiath  included.  It 
was  thus  that  on  a  certain  fine  day  the  belliger¬ 
ent  and  dauntless  Wattie  found  himself  and  his 
daughter,  the  young  and  sad  wife  of  the  castellan 
of  Cnoc  Gralfon,  close  prisoners  in  the  mighty, 
and  at  the  time  almost  impregnable,  fortress  of 
Cahir.  The  father  fretted  and  futned  at  being  thus 
rendered  inactive,  when  so  much  was  still  to  be 
done  outside;  but  the  daughter  sat  quietly  in  her 
lonely  prison,  and,  looking  on  her  bridal  ring,  day 
after  day,  still  bathed  it  with  many  a  bitter  tear,  as 
she  thought  of  the  grief  her  absent  husband  would 
feel  when  ho  heard  of  their  woful  state, 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  young  castel¬ 
lan  of  Cnoc  GrafiTon  remained  quiet  when  a  secret 
messenger  from  the  stout  W^ attie  bore  him  the 


22 


•338 


TUE  BRIDAL  RING. 


news.  He  immediately  proceeded  to  James  Galdie, 
the  Earl  of  Ormond’s  brother,  and  witli  him  con¬ 
cocted  a  plan  for  the  capturing  of  the  Castle  of 
Cahir.  At  the  head  of  about  sixty  chosen  men, 
they  marched  across  the  country,  and,  without  at¬ 
tracting  the  observation  of  the  garrison,  contrived 
to  ensconce  themselves  opposite  the  walls  of  the 
castle,  just  as  the  shadows  of  night  loomed  down 
darkly  upon  plain  and  glen  from  the  adjacent  sum¬ 
mits  of  the  Gaulty  Mountains.  They  had  brought 
with  them  a  number  of  ladders ;  and,  having  crossed 
the  drawbridge,  in  the  dead  silence  of  the  niglit 
they  began  scaling  the  inner  wall.  Ere  a  dozen  of 
them  had  gained  the  bawn  inside,  the  garrison  was 
aroused,  and  rushing  out,  sword  and  gun  in  hand, 
under  Thomas  Quayle,  the  castellan,  a  short  and 
sharp  struggle  commenced  between  the  two  parties. 
Wattie  Stem-the-Stream  and  his  daughter  were 
soon  .awakened  in  their  prison  chambers  by  the  loud 
clashing  of  swords  and  the  rattling  of  guns  and  pet- 
ronels  outside.  And  now  the  loud  crash  of  a  fal¬ 
conet,  or  smair  cannon,  resounded  from  a  tower 
overhead,  followed  by  a  strange,  fearful,  and  rust¬ 
ling  noise  that  seemed  to  tear  the  rocky  walls  of  the 
prison  chamber  .asunder,  after  which  the  young 
bride  sat  pale  and  terror-stricken  for  a  moment,  and 
theu  gave  one  wild  and  heart-piercing  cry  of  anguish 
and  despair. 

“  The  ring !  the  ring !  ”  she  cried,  holding  out  her 
hand  towards  her  startled  father.  “Ah,  me!  ah. 


THE  BRIDAL  RING. 


339 


me!  it  is  broken ;  and  I  know  but  too  well  that  my 
noble  husband  is  slain.” 

The  father  took  the  trembling  hand  in  his;  and, 
examining  the  bi-idal  ring,  found  it  cracked  asunder, 
and  almost  falling  off  the  finger  of  the  poor  young 
bride.  Still  the  uproar  continued  outside,  but  in 
a  short  time  it  ceased.  The  prison  door  at  length 
opened,  and  James  Galdie  and  a  few  men  strode 
into  the  chamber  with  the  news  that  they  had  taken 
the  castle.  At  the  moment  the  door  was  opened, 
Mary,  with  another  wild  ci-y,  rushed  out;  and,  when 
they  searched  for  her  a  few  moments  afterwards, 
they  found  her  by  the  wall,  stretched  beside  the 
dead  body  of  her  gallant  husband,  who  had  fallen 
beneath  the  cannon-ball  from  the  tower  above. 
They  raised  her ;  but  she  too  was  dead,  and  when 
they  took  her  lily-white  hand,  and  looked  upon  the 
ring,  they  found  it  whole  and  sound  as  ever,  —  a  mys¬ 
terious  sign  of  her  being  reunited  to  her  husband  in 
the  bridal  of  death.  They  were  laid  side  by  side 
in  the  little  churchyard ;  and  many  a  traveller,  as 
the  seasons  come  and  go,  sits  there  and  muses  sadly 
over  the  last  resting-place  of  the  brave  John  de 
Botiller  and  his  loving  wife. 


The  Little  Battle  of  Bottle  Hill. 


“  Saddled  and  bridled 
And  booted  rade  he  ; 

Toom  *  hame  came  the  saddle, 

But  never  came  he  !  ” 

MIDST  the  wild  tract  of  country  lying  between 


Cork  and  Mallow  rises  Bottle  Hill,  remarkable 


only  for  its  barrenness,  and  for  a  fight  that  took 
place  there  between  the  partisans  of  King  James 
and  King  William.  The  following  is  the  traditional 
aocount  of  that  fight. 

At  the  foot  of  Bottle  Hill  might  be  seen,  some 
few  years  ago,  a  spot  conspicuous  for  its  greenness 
amidst  the  surrounding  heath  and  shingle.  Traces 
of  the  foundations  of  buildings  might  then  be  ob¬ 
served  over  its  unequal  surface.  Now  the  heath  has 
encroached  upon  it,  so  that  it  is  scarcely  distinguish¬ 
able,  except  by  a  few  stunted  hazel-bushes,  from  the 


340 


*  Empty. 


THE  LITTLE  BATTLE  OF  BOTTLE  HILL.  341 


general  surface  of  the  barren  and  broken  moorland 
around.  On  this  spot  once  stood  the  strongly  fortified 
house  of  Master  Griinshaw  Stubbles,  son  of  the 
stout  and  godly  Ephraim  Stubbles,  one  of  the  victo¬ 
rious  Undertakers,  who  settled  down  in  the  country 
to  enjoy  the  conquests  of  their  bows  and  spears, 
after  the  termination  of  the  disastrous  wars  of 
Cromwell. 

Master  Grimshaw  proved  himself  a  worthy  suc¬ 
cessor  to  his  father,  when  that  sanctified  and  redoubt- 
al)le  hei’o  condescended  to  look  his  last  on  the  broad 
domain  he  had  won  by  his  conjoint  labors  as  drum¬ 
mer  and  expounder  of  the  Word  in  one  of  the 
Great  Protector’s  regiments  of  cavalry.  As  a  con¬ 
sequence  of  the  desolation  caused  by  the  Cromwel¬ 
lian  wars,  the  wolf  still  prowled  almost  unmolested 
over  the  barren  moorlands  and  woody  fastnesses  of 
the  neighborhood.  Ephraim  amused  himself  occa¬ 
sionally  by  a  hunt  after  one  of  these  fiei’ce  animals; 
but  his  propensities  as  a  Nimrod  were  often  gratified 
in  a  more  bloody  manner,  —  namely,  in  chasing  with 
sleuthhound  and  horn  the  unfortunate  men  who 
some  years  before  had  met  him  face  to  face  bravely 
in  battle,  but  who  now,  reduced  to  outlaws  and  Rap- 
parees,  broken-hearted  and  despoiled,  tried  to  gain  a 
subsistence,  as^  best  they  could,  amidst  the  sterility 
of  the  wild  region  above-mentioned. 

At  the  end  of  such  a  hunt,  and  when  the  poor  human 
game  was  at  last  run  down  and  captured,  not  one  of 
all  the  followers  of  old  Ephraim  Stubbles  had  such 


342 


THE  LITTLE  BATTLE 


a  deft  and  masterly  hand  as  his  son  at  tying  the 
hangman’s  noose,  and  adjusting  the  fatal  cord  by 
which  they  generally  suspended  the  body  of  their 
tortured  victim  to  the  branch  of  some  neighboring 
tree.  It  will  not  therefore  be  thought  wonderful, 
when,  at  the  end  of  the  reign  of  Charles  the  Second, 
his  father  died,  and  when  a  slight  change  came  over 
the  management  of  affairs  under  the  authority  of 
King  James,  that,  with  such  training  in  his  youth, 
Master  Grimshaw  Stubbles,  in  the  prime  of  life, 
should  lonci:  for  another  ruler  of  the  land  and  for  a 
return  of  the  old  license. 

Master  Grimshaw  had  not  long  to  wait.  After  a 
reio-n  that  broug-ht  more  trouble  and  disaster  to  Ire- 
land  than  any  of  the  preceding  ones.  King  James 
fled  to  France ;  and  the  south  was  occupied  by  the 
victorious  armies  of  William,  who  was  just  begin- 
iiinfr  the  memorable  siege  of  Limerick.  Then  it  was 
that  the  Undertakers  rose  rampant  and  furious  from 
under  the  weak  restrictions  that  had  been  imposed 
upon  them  during  the  rule  of  the  preceding  Stuarts. 
The  hunting  horns  rang  amidst  the  woods,  and  the 
sleuthhounds  were  let  loose  once  more ;  and  many  a 
brave  peasant,  who  had  fought  and  bled  in  the  cause 
of  the  worthless  Stuart,  met  his  cruel  fate  after  the 
chase,  under  the  hands  of  his  triumphant  and  ruth¬ 
less  foes. 

The  lands  now  held  by  Master  Grimshaw  for¬ 
merly  belonged  to  Donal  MacCarthy,  a  gentleman 
distantly  related  to  the  Earl  of  Glencar,  and  who. 


OF  BOTTLE  HILL. 


343 


like  Ms  more  powerful  relative,  had  fought  in  the 
cause  of  Charles  the  First  against  the  Parlia^nenta- 
rians.  Driven  from  his  home,  Donal  retired  to 
the  woods  with  his  wife  and  only  son,  and  the 
few  dependents  who  were  faithful  enough  to  share 
his  broken  fortunes.  Here,  season  after  season,  he 
fell  deeper  into  misery;  his  followers  died,  or  left 
him  to  eke  out  their  own  miserable  subsistence  in 
other  parts  of  the  country,  but  not  before  they  had 
aided  him  in  driving  otf  two  preys  of  cattle  from  the 
lands  of  Ephraim  Stubbles.  He  was  outlawed,  of 
course;  so  that  any  man  who  wished  might  legally 
kill  him,  and  get  a  reasonable  reward  for  his  head. 

At  last  the  indefatigable  Ephraim  Stubbles  fer¬ 
reted  out  DonaFs  retreat  in  the  woods,  surrounded 
the  wretched  hut  early  one  morning  with  his  con¬ 
freres  and  followers,  dragged  out  the  poor  old  gen¬ 
tleman  and  his  wife,  and  shot  them  at  their  own 
door.  Young  Donal  Riagh,  or  the  Swarthy,  their 
son,  would  have  shared  the  same  fate  as  his  parents, 
were  it  not  that  he  was  saved  by  a  merciful  and 
jolly  old  Roundhead  magistrate,  who,  instead  of 
the  draughts  of  the  Word  he  had  drunk  so  deep  of 
in  his  youth,  had  taken  in  his  latter  days  to  jovial 
stoups  of  Schiedam  and  foaming  tankards  of  Octo¬ 
ber  ale. 

With  the  memory  of  his  parents’  fate  for  ever  in 
his  mind,  it  was  no  wonder  that  Donal  Riagh,  as  he 
grew  up,  hated  with  his  whole  heart  the  son  of  their 
murderer.  By  his  daring  exploits  against  the  Wil- 


344 


THE  LITTLE  BATTLE 


liamites,  and  by  his  hereditary  influence  amongst  the 
people  of  the  surrounding  country,  he  had  become 
the  leader  of  a  numerous  band  of  Rapparees,  by 
whose  aid  he  was  now  planning  to  pay  back  the 
debt  he  owed  to  Master  Grimshaw  Stubbles.  On 
the  other  hand,  Grimshaw  was  by  no  means  idle, 
and  with  his  followers,  and  an  occasional  troop  of 
drasroons  from  Mallow,  scoured  the  woods  several 
times  in  search  of  his  mortal  foe.  And  thus  matters 
stood  between  the  two  on  a  flne  sunny  morning  in 
the  beginning  of  August,  1690. 

Grimshaw,  accoutred  in  morion  and  corselet  and 
the  other  warlike  habiliments  of  his  defunct  father, 
was  mounted  outside  his  own  gate.  Around  him 
were  grouped  several  other  horsemen,  —  namely,  two 
or  three  officers  from  the  garrison  of  Mallow,  who 
had  come  all  the  way  over  to  see  the  sport ;  about  a 
dozen  other  landholders  of  his  own  stamp,  amongst 
whom  might  be  seen  Adam  Blundel,  the  jolly  old 
toper  who  had  saved  the  life  of  Donal  Riagh ;  de¬ 
pendents,  hoi'se  and  foot,  armed  to  the  teeth,  and 
ready  for  any  cruelty,  however  atrocious  ;  while  be¬ 
hind,  under  the  archway  of  the  gate,  stood  a  man, 
with  a  leathern  leash  in  his  hand,  holding  in  check 
a  brace  of  strapping,  tawny  bloodhounds. 

“  By  my  soul !  ” —  said  old  Adam  Blundel,  who  had 
long  done  away  with  the  sanctimonious  twang  with 
which  he  Avas  wont  to  garnish  his  words  in  the  days 
of  Cromwell  —  “  by  my  soul,  and  by  the  hand  of 
Oliver !  but  I  little  thought  that  the  boy  whose  life  I 


OF  BOTTLE  HILL. 


345 


saved  twenty  years  ago  should  come  to  this,  — that 
he  should  he  chased,  caught,  and  strung  up,  as  he 
will,  I  fear,  before  the  day  is  over.” 

“You  fear?”  remarked  Grimshaw  Stubbles,  with 
a  fierce  and  dissatisfied  look:  “  what  a  tender  heart 
you  have  got,  Master  Blundel !  ” 

“I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Grimshaw,”  retorted  the 
old  toper,  “from  your  father  the  drummer,  up  to 
Oliver  the  general,  there  was  not  a  man  in  the  army 
that  had  a  harder  heart  than  mine  while  I  was 
filled  with  the  Spirit ;  but  ”  — 

“But  since  you  have  taken  to  filling  yourself  with 
another  kind  of  spirit,”  interrupted  one  of  Adam’s 
ancient  bottle-companions,  with  a  grim  smile,  “  your 
heart  is  softening  to  mankind  in  generad,  especially 
to  this  damned  Rapparee,  Donal  Riagh.” 

“Yes,”  remarked  another,  “we’ll  soon  have  him 
petitioning  King  \Yilliam,  I  suppose,  for  the  Rap- 
paree’s  pardon,  and  for  the  lives  of  his  followers, 
who  harry  our  lands  worse  than  their  brothers,  the 
wolves.” 

“Donal  Riagh  has  never  done  harm  to  me  or 
mine,”  returned  the  honest  and  blunt  old  magistrate, 
“  and  why  should  I  pursue  him  to  the  death  ?  I 
have  come  here  to-day  to  prevent  unnecessary 
bloodshed ;  and  yet,  as  for  Donal  Riagh,  I  fear  he 
must  die  at  last,  else  there  can  be  no  peace  in  the 
country.  Master  Grimshaw  here,  however,  knows 
that  Donal  has  suffered  enough  wrong  to  drive  a 
wiser  man  mad.” 


346 


THE  LITTLE  BATTLE 


“  Die  !  ”  exclaimed  Grimshaw,  unheeding  the  lat¬ 
ter  part  of  Old  Blundel’s  remark,  “  ay,  if  he  had 
twenty  lives ;  and,  if  we  catch  him,  he  shall  die  to¬ 
day.  But  see,  by  heaven,  Blundel!  but  the  Lord 
has  delivered  the  rebel  dog  into  our  hands  without 
trouble.  For  look  yonder !  ”  And  he  pointed  towards 
a  little  \Vood,  something  more  than  a  furlong  in 
front  of  the  house. 

Blundel  looked  in  the  direction  indicated;  but 
his  eyes  were  none  of  the  best,  and  he  could  barely 
distinguish  the  figure  of  a  man  leaning  against  a 
tree.  Not  so  with  the  eyes  of  Master  Grimshaw, 
which  were  rendered  doubly  sharp  by  hate. 

“  Look,  gentlemen  all,”  continued  he,  “  for  there 
he  stands  yonder,  alone  and  unarmed ;  for  what 
purpose,  I  know  not.  I  suppose  the  Lord  hath 
blinded  him,  so  that  he  conies  to  us  to  sue  for 
mercy,  and’ imagines  he  shall  obtain  it.  Unslip  the 
hounds,  Wattie;  and  away,  gentlemen!  It  is  a 
pleasure  we  can  hunt  at  sight.”  And,  with  that,  he 
threw  his  bridle  loose,  gave  his  horse  the  spur,  and 
dashed  off  in  the  direction  of  the  wood,  followed 
by  the  others. 

But  Grimshaw  Stubbles  little  knew  the  darinsr 

O 

and  subtle  man  he  had  to  deal  with.  The  moment 
he  had  given  his  horse  the  spur,  Donal  Riagh  dis¬ 
appeared  from  beneath  the  tree,  and  darted  through 
the  wood;  so  that  by  the  time  his  pursuers  had 
gained  the  outskirts  next  the  house  he  was  at  the 
opposite  side,  and  running  away  with  extraordinary 


OF  BOTTLE  HILL. 


347 


swiftness  over  the  slojDing  moorland  that  extended 
beyond.  At  the  other  side  of  this  moorland,  the 
country  became  rough  and  woody ;  and  towards 
this  wild  fastness  Donal  Riagh  was  flviug  at  full 
speed,  when  the  two  bloodhounds,  with  horse  and 
foot  behind  them,  burst  with  wild  clamor  from  the 
co2:)se,  and  stretched  out  eagerly  and  fiercely  upon 
his  track. 

The  moorland  was  soon  crossed,  and  Donal  dis- 
apj^eared  in  the  ragged  and  stunted  wood  that 
skirted  its  opjoosite  side.  As  he  pushed  onward,  the 
wood,  liowever,  became  denser,  the  trees  more  large 
and  lofty,  and  the  glens  by  which  it  was  intersected 
more  difficult  and  dangerous.  ISTow  and  then  his 
pursuers  caught  sight  of  him  as  he  crossed  some 
broken  glade,  but  that  was  all.  They  continued, 
however,  unerringly  upon  his  track ;  for  they  had 
only  to  follow  the  two  bloodhounds  that  were  all 
the  while  making  the  woody  dells  i-esound  with 
their  fierce  baying.  But  Donal  Riagh  took  it  all 
very  unconcernedly,  pushing  on  and  on,  and  draw¬ 
ing  his  pursuers  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  intrica¬ 
cies  of  that  wild  forest,  with  every  foot  of  which  he 
was  so  well  acquainted. 

After  about  an  hour’s  chase,  he  plunged  into  a 
deep  and  wooded  gorge,  througli  the  bottom  of 
which  a  broken  bridle-i^ath  led  in  through  the 
innermost  depths  of  the  forest.  Midway  in  this 
lonely  ravine,  he  turned  round  a  bowlder  of  rock, 
jDlunged  into  the  thick  underwood  that  clothed  its 


348 


THE  LITTLE  BATTLE 


rugged  side,  and  disappeared,  just  as  the  blood¬ 
hounds  came  about  a  hundred  yards  behind,  making 
the  whole  forest  ring  with  their  loud  and  triumph¬ 
ant  howling.  On  they  came,  their  black  noses 
scattering  the  fresh  dew  from  the  morning  grass, 
lill,  just  as  they  reached  the  crag  around  which 
Donal  Riagh  had  turned,  two  stalwart  young  Rap- 
parees  darted  out  from  the  thicket,  and  pinned  them 
to  the  ground  with  their  light  spears.  A  moment 
after,  Grimshaw  Stubbles  and  his  followers  dashed 
up  the  gorge,  and  halted  beside  the  writhing  bodies 
of  the  two  luckless  bloodhounds.  Then  came  the 
loud  pattering  of  petronel  and  musketoon  from 
both  sides  of  the  gorge,  and  Donal  Riagh  and  his 
vengeful  Rapparees,  with  a  wild  and  thrilling  shout, 
rushed  down  upon  the  unfortunate  Tory  hunter 
and  his  comrades. 

Let  us  now  return  to  the  house  of  Grimshaw 
Stubbles.  Scarcely  had  that  worthy  and  his  con¬ 
freres  disappeared  under  the  shades  of  the  forest 
beyond  the  moorland,  when  a  body  of  men,  about 
forty  in  number,  and  led  by  Theige  MacDonogh, 
Donal’s  lieutenant,  rushed  out  from  the  little  wood 
above  mentioned,  darted  in  through  the  open  gate¬ 
way,  fell  upon  the  scanty  guard  left  behind,  slew 
them  to  a  man,  and  took  possession  of  the  house. 
After  the  proper  military  arrangements  were  made  by 
Theige  MacDonogh,  —  who,  by  the  way,  had  served 
as  a  cornet  under  King  James,  at  the  Battle  of  the 
Boyne,  —  the  sentinel  who  stood  guard  at  the  gate- 


OF  BOTTLE  HILL. 


349 


way  saw  a  horse  tearing  madly  up  the  moorland  and 
around  the  little  wood,  which  his  practised  eye 
recognized  instantly  as  that  belonging  to  Master 
Grirnshaw  Stubbles.  The  fate  of  its  master  and 
most  of  his  comrades  in  the  wild  forest-gorge  may 
easily  be  guessed. 

About  the  same  moment,  two  horsemen  might 
be  seen  riding  at  full  speed,  and  in  different  direc¬ 
tions  from  the  fatal  gorge.  One  was  the  jovial  old 
toper,  Adam  Blundel,  whose  life  had  been,  as  a  mat¬ 
ter  of  course,  spared  by  Donal  Riagh  ;  the  other 
was  one  of  the  officers  from  Mallow,  who  had 
escaped,  aiid  who  was  riding  now  towards  that 
town  at  his  topmost  speed,  to  bring  out  as  many  of 
the  cavalry  of  the  garrison  as  he  could  to  the  scene 
of  the  wild  and  fatal  onslaught  of  the  morning. 

On  the  evening  of  that  day,  two  troops  of  Wil- 
liamite  dragoons  wound  up  the  sylvan  valley  of  the 
Clydagh  from  Mallow,  crossed  by  the  little  wood  in 
front  of  Grimshaw’s  house,  formed  in  line,  and 
halted  at  the  foot  of  Bottle  Hill.  A  trumpeter 
was  sent  forward,  after  a  slight  delay,  who  rode 
directly  onward  to  the  front  gate,  and  summoned 
the  Rapparees  to  surrender  without  conditions. 
The  garrison  was  now,  however,  strengthened  by 
Donal  Riafifh  and  his  followers,  so  that  it  somewhat 
outnumbered  the  Williamite  force  sent  against  it. 
The  answer  returned  to  the  trumpeter,  therefore, 
may  be  easily  imagined.  He  rode  back  with  a  re¬ 
fusal,  of  course,  to  report  it  to  his  comiq^nder. 


350 


THE  LITTLE  BATTLE 


Scarcely  had  the  trumpeter  reached  the  line,  when 
a  Rapparee  horseman,  with  a  white  handkerchief  on 
the  point  of  his  sword,  dashed  out  from  the  gate¬ 
way,  and  approached  within  talking  distance  of  the 
Williamites. 

“  Our  captain,  the  brave  Donal  Riagh  MacCar- 
thy,  sent  me  forward,”  said  he,  addressing  the  officer 
who  appeared  to  command  the  English  dragoons, 
“  to  know  how  many  sabres  ye  be  to  a  man  ?  ” 

“A  very  modest  inquiry,  indeed,”  exclaimed  the 
Williamite  captain,  laughing.  “  May  I  ask,  how¬ 
ever,  before  I  answer,  for  what  purpose  does  your 
master  ask  the  question  ?  ” 

“For  this,”  answered  the  Rapparee:  “that  for 
every  sabre  you  have,  Donal  Riagh  is  willing  to  tell 
out  the  same  number  on  this  nice  moorland,  and 
then  let  both  sides  see  it  out,  man  to  man,  on  horse¬ 
back  or  on  foot,  before  the  sun  sets  beyond  Mount 
Hillary.”  •  . 

“I  have  a  hundred  men  besides  myself  and  the 
three  officers  you  see  yonder,”  returned  the  English 
caj)tain,  delighted  at  the  pi’oposal.  “  Go  back  and 
tell  your  chief,  or  whatever  he  is,  that  I  am  hapjjy 
to  accede  to  what  he  proposes  ;  that  man  and  horse, 
I  and  my  officers  and  my  hundred  men,  will  fight 
him  and  his  officers  and  an  equal  number.  Such,  I 
believe,  are  the  conditions.  Stay  for  a  moment,” 
continued  he  with  a  sneer;  “tell  your  captain  that 
he  may  add  fifty  more  to  his  number.  We  shall 
fight  them,  IF  they  come  out  from  their  stone  walls.” 


OF  BOTTLE  HILL. 


351 


The  messenger  went  off  at  a  brisk  gallop,  and  soon 
rode  in  through  the  guarded  gateway. 

Most  of  the  men  under  Donal  Riagh,  as  well  as 
Donal  himself,  had  served  in  the  cavalry  of  King 
James ;  so,  after  being  disbanded  for  a  time  subse¬ 
quent  to  the  Battle  of  the  Boyne,  each,  on  his  com¬ 
ing  home,  had  taken  care,  along  with  keeping  his 
arms  and  accoutrements,  which  he  was  allowed  to 
do  by  his  commanders,' to  provide  himself  also  with 
a  horse.  And  thus  it  happened  that  the  delibera¬ 
tions  of  the  English  w'ere  soon  disturbed  by  the 
martial  strain  of  a  cavalry  trumpet,  and  immediately 
afterwards  Donal  Riagh  was  seen  riding  forth  from 
the  gate  of  Grimshaw  Stubbles’s  house  at  the  head 
of  a  hundred  horsemen,  with  Theiare  MacDonoo-Ii 
and  two  other  subordinate  commanders  by  his  side. 
The  English  trumpeter  now  sounded  forth  his  chal¬ 
lenge  in  return ;  and,  in  a  few  moments,  the  men  on 
both  sides  sat  their  horses  opposite  one  anothei-,  ex¬ 
pecting  the  command  to  charge.  It  came;  and  then 
followed  the  thundering  rush  across  the  dry  spot  of 
moorland  that  lay  between  the  belligerents,  the 
crash  of  both  lines  as  they  closed  in  the  deadly  con¬ 
flict,  and,  soon  after,  the  victorious  shouts  of  the 
brave  Rapparees,  as  the  English,  massing  themselves 
together  as  closely  as  they  could,  began  to  retreat 
slowly  over  the  hills,  leaving  about  twenty  of  their 
number  behind  upon  the  field.  After  losing  about 
lialf-a-dozen  more  of  his  men,  the  Williamite  cap¬ 
tain,  who,  all  through  the  fight,  showed  himself  a 


3.52  the  little  battle  of  bottle  hill. 

man  of  much  judgment  and  mettle,  at  last  succeed¬ 
ed  in  making  his  retreat  into  Mallow.  On  the  side 
of  the  Rapparees  about  a  dozen  men  fell.  The 
horses  and  trappings  of  the  slain  dragoons  were, 
however,  an  important  addition  to  the  armament  of 
the  gallant  and  victorious  Donal  Riagh  MacCarthy, 
who,  in  the  war  that  followed,  became  one  of  the 
most  celebrated  and  successful  Rapparee  leaders  in 
tlie  south  of  Ireland. 

Thus  ended  what  we  have  called,  at  the  head  of 
this  paper,  the  little  battle  of  Bottle  Hill.  The 
story,  though  traditional,  and  though  perhaps  its 
details  on  that  account  cannot  be  strictly  relied, 
upon,  is  still  instructive,  showing,  as  it  does,  how  the 
Irish  peasantry,  when  properly  prepared,  and  acting 
in  concert  under  a  brave  and  skilful  leader  like 
Donal  Riagh,  can  fight,  and  win  even,  on  a  fair  field 
and  man  to  man,  against  English  or  any  other 
troops,  no  matter  how  high  the  valor  and  perfect 
the  discipline  of  the  latter. 


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